Page 47 of Zayrik
This was worse.
And she knew it too well.
Nyla sat in the co-pilot’s seat beside me, arms crossed, leg bouncing like she’d rather be anywhere else. The position put her close enough that I could catch her scent, could feel the heat radiating from her body. Close enough to remember how she’d felt pressed against me in that cargo hold.
I pushed the thought away. Focus.
“Requesting docking clearance,” she said, tapping the comms. Her voice was steady, professional. But I caught the way her fingers trembled slightly over the controls.
The reply crackled back with a voice like gravel soaked in whiskey.
“Docking fees doubled if you want no questions.”
She keyed in the credits without a blink.
Not her first time here.
I hated that I liked knowing that. Hated how every little detail about her felt important, necessary.
Outside, the docking bay was a mess. Ships in varying states of decay, workers who moved like they were late to die. Somewhere on the far side, a fistfight broke out. No one stopped it. The kind of place where people disappeared, and no one asked why.
I set the ship down smooth, letting the silence stretch too long after systems powered down.
She didn’t look at me.
I didn’t look at her.
But I felt her presence like a physical thing, impossible to ignore.
The kiss still clung to me like smoke. The taste of her haunting every breath. But now wasn’t the time. Not with half the galaxy watching, and her still tasting like fire in my memory.
WE STEPPED INTO HELL.
The air was thick with rust and scorched coolant, making my throat tight. Shadows clung to the corners like living things. Every instinct screamed danger, but it wasn’t just the environment setting me on edge. It was the way Nyla moved through it, too familiar with this kind of darkness.
I kept one hand close to my sidearm, positioning myself slightly behind her. Close enough to protect, far enough not to crowd. The distance felt wrong after that kiss, but necessary.
Nyla moved with purpose, her gait decisive and too calm. Like she was trying to disappear into plain sight. She didn’t flinch when someone shoved past her, didn’t glance back when a vendor cursed under his breath. But I caught the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her hand stayed near her own weapon.
She belonged here.
Or used to.
And that knowledge sat like acid in my gut.
We reached the repair stalls near the end of the bay. A Sarkan mechanic leaned against a half-gutted hull, grease streaking his tunic like war paint. His eyes lingered too long on Nyla, recognition flickering before he masked it.
“Need a hull patch, stabilizer recalibration and a thruster check,” Nyla said.
Her tone was too flat. Like she was trying to disappear into it. But I heard the edge underneath, the careful control that meant she was ready to run.
The Sarkan grunted. “Expensive.”
She named a higher price. “And fast.”
He looked her over, then jerked his chin toward the ship. “Give me two hours.”
She nodded once.
