Page 34 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate

Zara’s words echo in my mind: “Is it just another word for connection? For letting someone matter enough that you’d risk pain for the chance at something real?”

So I stay, perching carefully on the edge of his bed. “What do you want to know?”

His smile is gentle despite the pain evident in his eyes. “Everything. But let’s start with something simple. What made you choose the name Neon?”

I almost laugh at that. Of all the things he could ask about—my past, my skills, the danger hunting us—he asks about my name. But maybe that’s safer than the other truths burning in my throat.

“It’s... complicated,” I hedge, feeling oddly vulnerable. “And honestly kind of silly.”

“We have time.” He shifts, making room for me to sit more comfortably. “Unless you’re planning to run again?”

I roll my eyes, but can’t quite hide my smile. “I chose it because neon is a noble gas—it doesn’t react easily with other elements. Stays separate. Safe.” I pause, suddenly self-conscious. “Plus, it glows bright enough to cut through darkness. Like my implants.”

“That doesn’t sound silly at all,” he says, his expression thoughtful. “It sounds rather brilliant, actually.”

“Oh, just wait.” I can feel my cheeks warming. “The full name is Neon Valkyrie—after these ancient warrior women who chose who lived and died in battle. I thought I was being so deep and mysterious, choosing who lives or dies in the networks.” Icover my face with my hands. “I spent three days practicing my ‘mysterious hacker’ voice in front of a mirror.”

His laugh is warm and genuine, not mocking at all. “Please tell me you still have that voice.”

“Absolutely not.” But I’m grinning now too, the tension easing from my shoulders despite everything. “Though sometimes I wonder if I chose the name or if it chose me. Especially now.”

“Fitting,” he murmurs, his wing brushing against my back in a touch that feels more comforting than possessive. “Though I think you react more than you’d like to admit, mysterious hacker voice and all.”

I should bristle at that, should maintain the walls I’ve built so carefully. Instead, I find myself relaxing slightly, letting his warmth seep into my tired muscles. “Maybe. Sometimes.” A beat passes before I add, softer, “Like now.”

His breath catches, and I feel the bond between us pulse with something that makes my implants stutter. “Tell me more,” he says softly. “Please.”

And maybe it’s the fever making him vulnerable, or maybe it’s Zara’s words still echoing in my mind—about family, about connection, about letting someone matter—but I find myself wanting to share. Wanting to trust. Wanting to believe that maybe, just maybe, we can face what’s coming together.

“I learned to hack because it was the only way to survive in the lower levels,” I say, the words coming easier than I expected. “But Kai and Kira—they showed me it could be more than that. We were going to change things, expose corruption, make a difference.” I swallow hard. “Until everything went wrong.”

His hand finds mine, his touch gentle despite the heat burning beneath his skin. “And now? What do you want to change?”

The question hits harder than he probably intends. Because what I want to change most is the past—want to save Kai, wantto stop Kira from joining the Eclipse, want to prevent all of this from happening. But I can’t. All I can do is try to stop her now, before she destroys everything I’ve grown to care about.

“I want...” My voice catches. How do I tell him I want to stay, want to trust this thing growing between us, but I’m terrified that doing so will get him killed? “I want to stop running. But I don’t know how when the thing I’m running from keeps finding new ways to hurt the people I care about.”

His wings curl around us, creating a private sanctuary against the stars. “I’m stronger than you think, little hacker. And I’m not going anywhere.”

“The bond-sickness might have other ideas about that.” And Kira might have even worse ones, I don’t add.

He tugs me closer, until I’m practically in his lap, surrounded by his heat and the protective shelter of his wings. “Then give me a reason to fight it. Give us both a reason to stop running.”

I should pull away. Should tell him about Kira, about her threats, about how being close to me might be a death sentence. But when his lips find mine, soft and questioning, I find myself answering with a hunger that surprises us both. Because maybe this—this connection, this trust, this growing love—is worth fighting for. Worth dying for, even.

I let myself drown in the sensation of his touch, the gentle yet firm pressure of his hands as they explore my body. His fingers trace the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, each touch sending shivers of pleasure coursing through me. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the fever of the bond-sickness making his touch almost unbearably intense. But there’s something more beneath the heat—a tenderness, a reverence that makes my heart ache.

His lips find mine again, the kiss deepening into something urgent and hungry. I can taste the faint metallic tang of his blood, the sweetness of his breath, and something else—a hint ofdesperation, a need that mirrors my own. His hands slide under my shirt, fingers tracing patterns on my skin that make me gasp and arch into his touch. Each caress is a question, a plea for permission, and I answer with a silent yes, my body pressing against his, seeking more.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down my neck, tasting the salt of my skin, feeling the pulse that races beneath his touch. His breath is hot against my throat, each exhale sending shivers down my spine. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and something deeper—a vulnerability that makes my heart clench. I nod, helping him remove my shirt, baring myself to him in more ways than one. “God, yes,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath.

His hands explore my body with a reverence that makes me shiver, tracing the curves and contours as if memorizing every inch. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the barely contained fever of the bond-sickness that makes his touch both a pleasure and a torment. His wings curl around us, creating a cocoon of warmth and privacy, blocking out the rest of the universe until there’s only us, only this moment.

His lips find mine again, the kiss deepening with an intensity that leaves me breathless. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, the rhythm matching my own as we lose ourselves in the sensation. His hands slide lower, tracing the line of my hips, making my breath hitch in anticipation. Every touch, every kiss, feels like a promise—a promise of something more than just physical connection, something deeper and more profound. And for the first time in years, I find myself wanting to believe in that promise, wanting to trust in the possibility of more.

When we finally break apart, reality crashes back like a wave of ice water. My implants helpfully catalog the physiological responses—elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, increased oxytocin levels—but they can’t quantify the war raging insideme. The part that wants to run, to protect both of us from the inevitable pain of attachment, battles against the part that’s tired of being alone. Tired of letting fear dictate my choices.

I rest my forehead against his chest, listening to his thundering heartbeat while my enhanced senses register the fever still burning beneath his skin. The bond-sickness hasn’t improved—if anything, this intimacy has made it worse. Another thing to feel guilty about. Another way I’m hurting someone I care about.

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