Page 50 of Star Claimed Omega
‘Full name?’ he prompted with mock sternness.
She squinted. ‘Santiago, Something-Spanish-and-Suave?’
He chuckled, the sound silky, rich, and timbred. ‘Close enough. Call me Santi, it’s less formal, more me. Now, what’s your comm tab, bags, and clothes? Just in case I need you to change into a gorgeous gown for a date later tonight.’
Her lips parted in a hoarse laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Of course. I just saved your life. That entitles me to a proper date. Standardsave your shitprotocol.’
She laughed again, softer this time. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
‘And charming,’ he added, brushing his hand across her cheek. ‘Also dangerously good-looking in Deck 3’s gutter lighting.’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘You’re impossible.’
‘Yet,’ he grinned, ‘here you are, collapsing into my arms like a woman in a soap drama.’
She smacked his torso weakly. ‘I didn’t collapse on purpose.’
‘I’m not complaining.’
His teasing eased the last remnants of panic in her chest, releasing her body’s tension. The alley still stank of rotten synth waste and wet concrete, but wrapped in his timbre, arms, and warmth, she scarcely noticed.
He leaned down, gaze tender and unrushed. ‘You okay now,mi sol?’
She nodded, and with her utterance steadier, whispered, ‘I think I will be.’
He glanced down at her again, his mouth tipping up as he raked those violet and gold eyes over her, extending a hand. ‘Coming?’
She flicked her eyes down at her torn uniform, her scuffed bare feet, and her sweaty, dirt- and soot-covered skin.
Her face flushed with shame and self-consciousness, as his hand clasped her arm, heating her, as she shivered.
She was cold, so cold.
Regardless, she tried to protest and pull away. ‘Wait, I’m gross, I’m better off getting up myself, I can walk.’
‘Nada, you can’t,’ he rasped.
He shed his cloak and wrapped it around her, enveloping her in his heady musk and heat.
As she stared on in disbelief, he bent to the ground, scooped up her scattered bag and remaining things, her jacket, a single boot, her cracked commtab, and shoved them into her dirt-freckled duffel, which he slung over one shoulder.
Without ceremony, he hoisted her into his hold like she weighed nothing, her limbs limp, one arm dangling, her head swaying against his deltoid.
‘Wait, put me down,’ she mumbled, her protest slurred. ‘I’m sticky, sweaty asfokk-.’
‘Naam,’ he muttered. ‘You are.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Hush.’
‘You shouldn’t-.’
‘For the love of all heaven, shut thefokkup woman.’
She jolted and clamped her mouth at his irritated huff.
