Page 65 of Star Claimed Omega
The bridge re-pressurized in a rush, air blasting in from the reserve tanks.
Santi and his fellow strong guards shifted back into humaniform, shaking out their limbs and easing off their brace positions.
A scattering of frozen bodies still floated outside, visible through the translucent barrier, caught in the grim grip of an icy vacuum of death.
Mak stepped up beside Santi, his hair mussed, a bruise swelling under his eye.
‘Next time you take action to blow out the only impediment between us and space, put that shit on a billboard. Also, hand out stress gummies for good measure,cabrón.’
Santi exhaled hard, leaned back in the command chair, and pinched the arch of his nose.
‘No time for a pampered forewarning, brother, had to move fast.’
Mak huffed and caught Santi in a half-hug. ‘Good call, XO. It worked.’
‘You’d better believe. Still some freakinkinaiswith some balls just tried to take down my pack and our ship.Fokkin’ huge mistake.’
11
Chapter 11
SANTIAGO
The boardroom, situated alongside the bridge, where some of the fighting had spilled over, still reeked of blood and scorched metal.
Autobots slid and hissed along the ceilings, conducting repairs and cleanup.
The holo walls flickered with tactical overlays, grids of the ship, pulse readings, movement traces, and schematic blueprints, all crawling with glowing red alerts.
The Signet strong guard filtered in, hiding grimaces, each marked by the brawl.
Miral, ever watchful, flicked her gaze up as they entered, offering them a nod of quiet respect.
Zev’s knuckles were scraped raw and wrapped.
Kaal’s shoulder bore a sling where a blade had gone too deep.
Mak was quiet, his ever-moving jaw tight as he took a seat and rubbed his eyes.
Boaz moved stiffly, limping from a twisted ankle.
None of them complained.
They were still alive.
Silent and brooding, Santi crossed to the bar and pulled out a bottle of deep amber bourbon, its glass catching the lights.
He uncorked it with a quick twist and poured generous fingers into thick tumblers, the scent of charred oak and spice filling the room.
He slid the glasses across the table to hishermanos, who caught them without ceremony.
Lifting his own, he eyed them with intent and a touch of fury at what transpired earlier.
‘To breathing,’ Boaz muttered, a tired grin ghosting his lips.
‘Tofokkin’ survival,’ Mak added, his rasp hoarse as he leaned in the doorway.
‘To the pack.’
