Page 9 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate

The bond is already sinking its claws into me, my body recognizing what my mind barely has time to process. Each second without her is a brand searing deeper into my bones, a countdown I can’t ignore. Days, maybe weeks before the sickness takes hold. And I don’t intend to waste them.

I watch her, every instinct screaming at me toact. Her fingers hover over the controls with the practiced ease of someone who’s lived inside code, her enhanced eyes scanning for vulnerabilities. There’s a sharp intelligence in every movement, a mind built for survival, for escape. But I can’t let her run—not when she doesn’t understand what’s at stake.

“No deal.” My voice comes out rough, edged with something I can’t quite leash, something primal and immovable. My wingstwitch, the fire in my blood flaring hot enough to burn. She doesn’t look up, but I see the flicker of tension in her shoulders. Shefeltit—the weight of those words, the warning they carry.

She’s not walking away from this.

Not from me.

She turns sharply, but not before I catch it—a slight stiffening of her shoulders, a flicker of tension in her jaw, the kind of reaction that speaks of someone used to losing their options one by one. It’s gone as fast as it appeared, replaced by sharp-edged defiance. “Do whatever you want, Captain,” she snaps, voice controlled but clipped, like she’s forcing it through locked teeth. “I’m sure the Planetary Police will love adding ‘kidnapping’ to your list of charges when they catch us.”

“Evasive maneuvers!” I bark, gripping the armrest as the ship lurches violently. Grig’s hands fly over the controls, twisting the Void Reaver into a sharp roll that sends the incoming plasma bolts streaking harmlessly past our hull. The inertia presses against my wings, but I barely register it—my focus sharpens on the tactical display, on the enemy’s pattern, on the next move that will keep us alive a little longer.

I flex my wings, shadows dancing across the bridge as I stalk toward Neon. She doesn’t back down—of course she doesn’t. My mate is as stubborn as she is beautiful, and just as dangerous. “You’re not leaving this ship.”

My wings twitch, an involuntary reaction to the sharp, wild scent of her nerve. It sets my blood burning hotter, a primal recognition sparking deep in my bones. She’s nothing like the trembling fugitives I’ve dealt with before—those who beg, who barter, who break under the weight of inevitability. No, this female stands her ground, chin lifted, eyes blazing, every sharp line of her body promising a fight.

And stars help me, I want that fight.

I step closer, slow and deliberate, watching the way her breath hitches—not in fear, but calculation. She’s already running probabilities, mapping escape vectors, weighing risk against reward. My mate is dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with weapons and everything to do with will. And she’d rather die than be caged.

The realization is a punch to the gut.

Kyvernian instincts war with hard-won discipline. Claim. Protect. Anchor. But Neon is no anchor—she’s a solar flare, brilliant and untamed, and if I try to hold too tightly, she’ll burn through my fingers. The mate-bond pulses, the sickness already whispering warnings in my veins, but I shove it aside.

She thinks this is about control. It’s not. It’s survival—hers and mine. And somehow, I need to make her see that before she destroys us both.

I exhale slowly, adjusting my stance, making sure my wings don’t flare in challenge. “You think I would let that happen?” My voice is low, steady, though my hands twitch with the need to touch, to hold—tokeep.“You think I would let you throw yourself into the void because you don’t trust me yet?”

Her eyes narrow, lips parting like she’s ready to fire back another cutting remark, but I push forward, voice rougher now. “You want to fight me? Fine. I’ll take that battle any day.” My wings flex, but I force them still. “But don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ll ever let you go.”

The ship rocks with a glancing hit. “Shields at eighty percent!” Zara calls out, her russet fur bristling as her claws dig into her console. The impact reverberates through the deck plates, a harsh reminder of our vulnerability. Each hit brings us closer to capture—or worse, to losing my mate before I’ve even had a chance to show her what we could be together.

I watch Neon’s reaction, noting how she automatically adjusts her stance to compensate for the ship’s movement, how herenhanced eyes track multiple threat vectors simultaneously. She’s beautiful in her competence, deadly in her grace. And she has no idea what she means to me, how the very thought of her leaving makes my blood burn with something far more painful than desire.

Already something burns in my veins, an unfamiliar ache that grows stronger with each passing moment. I’ve heard whispered stories about bond-sickness all my life—warnings passed down through generations about the price of an unclaimed mate. But experiencing it firsthand... the reality is more terrifying than any tale. Each breath without her nearby feels hollow, incomplete. Something fundamental has shifted inside me, and I don’t know how to fix it. Or if it can be fixed.

I grip the arm of my chair, wings mantling with barely contained frustration. Out here in the lawless expanse of space, I thought I was safe from such primal forces. I never expected to find my mate, never prepared for what it might mean. Now every instinct screams that she belongs with me, while my rational mind grapples with an increasingly desperate question: What happens if she continues to reject the bond?

The words burn like acid in my throat. Every instinct in me snarls to refuse, to keep her close, to force her to understand what she is to me. But forcing her will only make her run faster. If I want her to stay, I must let her think she is free.

Even if the thought of it tears me apart.

I exhale sharply, wings twitching with the effort it takes to restrain myself. “Fine. Driftspire Station.” But the promise tastes like a lie. Because no matter where we go, no matter how far she runs, she’s already mine.

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she turns back to the console. “Smart choice. Now, about that creative solution...”

The way she commands my console demands my tactical assessment—each movement precise and lethal, marking her as a fellow predator. My military training catalogs the details automatically: enhanced neural capabilities, advanced infiltration skills, combat-ready positioning. The blue glow of her implants marks her as more dangerous than initially assessed. Yet beneath the analytical observation, something primitive stirs, an awareness that bypasses centuries of discipline.

I maintain a professional distance, though my wings shift restlessly at my back. The mate-bond burns in my blood, urging closer proximity, but I force my attention to remain tactical. Her capabilities could either save or destroy my ship—that’s what matters right now, not the way her presence seems to electrify the recycled air between us.

The slight tension in her shoulders reveals hypervigilance—someone used to watching their back. My enhanced senses pick up traces of adrenaline beneath the sharp scent of her neural tech. She’s running from something serious enough to override her obvious aversion to being trapped on my ship. That tactical insight is more valuable than the primal satisfaction of having her in my territory.

I need to focus on the mission, on protecting my crew and cargo. The mate-bond’s pull is just another variable to manage, not an excuse to lose the discipline that’s kept me alive this long.

“Your cloaking system is decent,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. “But with a few modifications...” Her voice trails off as lines of code scroll across the screen faster than even my enhanced vision can track.

“What are you doing to my ship?” I demand, my voice rougher than intended as her proximity sends waves of heat through my blood. Her scent fills my lungs—metal and lightning and something uniquely human—making my wings flexunconsciously. I force them still, centuries of military discipline battling against primitive instincts I’ve never encountered before. The urge to wrap my wings around her, to claim this lethal creature as mine, burns almost as hot as the mate-bond itself. But I can’t afford distractions, not with pursuit vessels on our tail. Focus on the tactical situation. Analysis first, primal urges later.

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