Page 10 of Salvation for the Alien Mercenary
Her fingers went slack, shirt slipping forgotten from her grasp. Inside the crate sat a high-end simulation rig—glossy black console with crimson accent lights, neural interface headset, haptic controller with articulated finger-grips, and a compact holoprojector. Not just any gaming equipment, but military-grade tech, the kind of setup pro gamers would kill for.
Words died in her mouth. Every component screamed precision engineering, from the neural sensors to the projection matrix. She'd seen similar setups selling for more credits than she'd earned in a year at the clinic.
"Why?" The words scraped out, sharper than intended. She crossed her arms. "What's this really for?"
He leaned against a washing unit.
"Like I said. I had spare parts." His broad shoulders lifted in a minute shrug. "Figured you were bored." A flicker passed behind his eyes, there and gone. "Besides, you need to keep your tactical skills sharp."
The explanation hung between them, deliberately incomplete. He was a walking contradiction—the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen, all hard edges and controlled power, yet impossible to read. The scar along his jaw only emphasized the perfect symmetry of his features, a single flaw making the whole more devastating.
She couldn’t help reaching out toward the rig, fingers hovering over the neural interface without touching.
"It won't fit in my room," she said, eyes still fixed on the equipment. Her quarters were barely larger than a closet.
“I figured. It’s a small ship.” He nodded, like he'd anticipated every objection. "There's a clear spot in Engineering. Stable power, out of the main traffic flow. If you’d like?”
Engineering. His domain on the ship. Where he could watch her.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the console, its surface cool and smooth against her skin. "Okay."
Her laundry sat abandoned asthey headed to engineering. He carried the main console, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his fitted black shirt. She followed with the peripherals clutched against her chest.
The engineering bay sprawled before them, in functional chaos… all exposed circuit panels, diagnostic terminals, and machinery in various states of disassembly. The air tasted metallic, sharp with the bite of ozone and the sweet undertone of coolant. Davis was true to his word. A cleared corner awaited them, already outfitted with power couplings and data ports.
As she unpacked cables, Spot scampered around her feet chirping happily. It bumped gently against her ankle, its optical sensors flickering as it tilted up to look at her.
"Careful with the power conduits," Davis muttered, not to her but to the drakeen. The machine chirped once, its leg segments reconfiguring as it adjusted course to avoid them.
She reached out, her hand collided with his over the central power node. The brush of his knuckles against hers sent a jolt up her arm that had nothing to do with actual electricity. Her fingers stilled. His didn't. His skin was furnace-hot against hers, calloused in places that spoke of years handling tools and weapons.
She looked up. And caught her breath.
The usual ice in his blue eyes had melted into something darker, more dangerous. His pupils widened slightly, swallowing the blue. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Neither breathed as the air between them hummed with an intensity that made the hair on her arms stand on end.
His throat moved as he swallowed. She tracked the motion, suddenly aware of her dry lips, her quickened pulse.
Then he blinked and the moment shattered. Pulling back, he reached for a different component, shoulders rigid as armor plating. Neither of them spoke. She daren’t.
When the main parts were finally in place, she inhaled slowly, the recycled air filling her lungs. “Thank you,” she said, gesturing at the rig. “For this, I mean. And... for helping me with him yesterday." She nodded toward Spot, who was currently attempting to 'help' by batting at a dangling cable with one articulated leg.
Davis paused, his hands stilling on the console. "Sure. No problem."
Spot abandoned the cable, its front leg skittering on the deck plating as it turned. The five new limbs—cobbled together from scrap metal—caught light differently from its three original ones. It took a tentative step forward, then froze when the rightmost replacement leg skidded on the smooth deck plating.
It chirped, the sound edged with static. A slight adjustment to its stance, then another careful step. The leg held.
Another step. Faster this time.
The blinking diagnostic panel across the bay drew its attention. It moved toward it, new confidence in each clank of metal on metal. A wobble here, an over-correction there, but the motion smoothed with every meter crossed.
"I've decided to call him Spot," she said, watching the machine's curious exploration.
Davis froze, turning fully toward her. His eyebrows drew together. "'Spot'? You're calling it 'Spot'? Seriously?"
She straightened her spine, chin lifting slightly. "Yeah. I... I used to have a cat. Named Spot."
He watched her, waiting. The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. She dropped her gaze to the floor, where a patch of oil made a dark stain on the metal.
