Page 12 of Deserted

“Eight hours, seventeen minutes.” I could tell her the seconds as well, but that might reveal too much about how acutely aware I was of every moment spent in her presence.

“Guess we’re stuck with each other a while longer then.” She yawned again, the release of tension suggesting she felt safe enough to relax. Safe with me. The thought sent another surge of pride through my system.

I watched her through slightly narrowed eyes as she adjusted her position, getting comfortable. Her scent had changed again—still that intoxicating blend of citrus and spice, but mellowed now with contentment and drowsiness. She was drifting back toward sleep, her body still recovering from its ordeal.

Good. Sleep would give me time to regain control. To plan. To figure out how to explain to Legion Command that I could not—would not—allow them to erase her memories. That she was kassari, and therefore under my protection by laws older than the Legion itself.

That I would tear apart anyone who tried to harm her.

The violence of that thought should have alarmed me. Instead, it settled into my bones with comfortable certainty. This was what it meant to find one’s fate-mate. This fierce, uncompromising need to protect, to claim, to cherish.

She mumbled something unintelligible as she curled onto her side, her breathing deepening into sleep.

I remained in my meditation pose, watching over her, gathering my strength.

And hoping the stars would give me strength. Or a cold shower.

Preferably both.

5 /JAS

It started with a hiss.Not from the alien, who had apparently taken a vow of dramatic brooding, but from the water purifier. The sound cut through the stale recycled air of our little bunker, startling me from my third attempt to inventory what was left of my personal belongings after my unexpected interplanetary vacation.

I’d been awake for a few hours, restless and unable to fall back asleep with my skin still buzzing from dreams too vivid to dismiss. Dreams that left me flushed and frustrated, with phantom sensations of strong hands and golden eyes. Dreams that felt strangely familiar, like memories I couldn’t quite place.

The purifier hissed again, more aggressively this time, followed by an alarming pop and the distinct smell of something electrical giving up the ghost.

“Hey, uh... Mr. Tall, Grim, and Growly?” I called out, abandoning my pathetic pile of half-melted possessions and crouching beside the sparking device. “Your apocalypse Keurig is throwing a tantrum.”

No answer. Of course.

I glanced over my shoulder and, yep—there he was, standing like a granite sculpture with arms crossed and eyes glowingfaintly in the low light. Watching. Always watching. His massive frame somehow managed to make the already cramped shelter feel both smaller and safer at the same time.

“Do you even speak?” I asked, voice rising with mock incredulity. “Or do you just... brood people into submission? Because if it’s the latter, I should warn you that I’m particularly resistant to tall, dark, and silent types.” That was a lie. I was extremely susceptible to his particular brand of brooding intensity, a fact I was desperately trying to ignore.

Still no response, though his jaw ticked. Aha! Progress.

The purifier gave one last pathetic wheeze before spitting out a stream of what looked suspiciously like steam instead of water. I leapt back with a yelp that I would later deny vehemently.

“Okay, seriously, I think it’s dying. And since I’m guessing water is kind of important in this hellscape desert of yours, maybe we should do something?”

He walked over finally, every heavy step somehow quieter than my heartbeat, and knelt beside me. Without a word, he popped open the panel, large clawed hands far more gentle than I expected as he fiddled with internal components. I bit the inside of my cheek to stop a comment about how even his fingers were annoyingly attractive—long, strong, with those predatory claws that retracted partially as he worked with delicate parts.

The proximity was torture. Heat radiated from his body like a furnace, carrying that scent I couldn’t place—something wild and masculine and definitely not human. Something that made my mouth water embarrassingly.

“Do you glower at all broken appliances,” I said lightly, desperate to break the silence, “or am I just lucky?”

He looked up at me then, eyes narrowing, his voice gravel and thunder. “You talk too much.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Definitely not a conversationalist.”

Still, I didn’t move as he worked. I liked the heat of him, the scent—something earthy and dry, like sunbaked stone and wild herbs. I was dangerously close to leaning into him when he handed me a replacement tube with a single grunted word: “Hold.”

I held. Probably held my breath too. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and the contact sent an electric jolt up my arm that had absolutely nothing to do with the malfunctioning purifier. His skin was hot and slightly rough, textured in a way human skin wasn’t. The brief touch lingered like a brand.

I watched his face as he worked, fascinated by the subtle expressions that crossed his alien features. Concentration furrowed his brow. Irritation tightened his jaw. Satisfaction softened his eyes when a connection clicked into place. He was more expressive than he knew, or at least more than he intended to be.

When the purifier finally purred instead of hissed, I grinned. “Look at that. Teamwork.”

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