Page 14 of Naughty List Delivery
“Krax won’t risk destroying the packages if he thinks they’re valuable,” I say, moving to the secondary console while trying not to notice the way her body heat seems to reach for mine across the small space. “Whoever fed me that intelligence tip probably told him the same thing—high-value cargo, worth intercepting. They wouldn’t have known the actual contents.”
“And when he realizes they’re Christmas presents?”
“Then we better make sure he doesn’t get close enough to scan them.” My hands move over controls I helped her install three years ago, muscle memory guiding me while being in herspace does things to my concentration that have nothing to do with tactics. “He’s operating on the same bad intel I was—thinks you’re smuggling something worth killing for.”
“You still have the plasma cannon modifications?”
“Removed them.” Her voice is quiet, almost apologetic, and the scent of her regret mingles with everything else in the small space. “They were... taking up too much space.”
Of course she did. Because the woman who spent three years perfecting the art of controlled violence has apparently decided to become a pacifist who delivers holiday cheer to families across the galaxy.
“The missile launchers?”
“Converted to storage for medical supplies.”
“The shield boosters?”
“Replaced with a better filtration system.”
I stare at her, torn between admiration and exasperation and the growing need to crowd her against something solid until she explains exactly what happened to the woman who used to plan raids with the precision of a tactical genius. “Nova, how exactly did you plan to defend yourself if you ran into trouble?”
“By not looking for trouble in the first place.” She meets my gaze steadily, and the direct eye contact sends heat spiraling through my chest. “Turns out most people don’t shoot at you if you’re not trying to rob them.”
“Most people aren’t information brokers with a grudge and a very flexible moral code.”
“No,” she agrees, fingers flying over the navigation controls as she plots our escape route. The competence is arousing in ways I’m trying not to think about. “And most people aren’t you.”
The accusation hits home because it’s true, and because the woman saying it used to love that about me. Used to find my dangerous reputation thrilling instead of problematic. Used to whisper “mine” against my throat when we’d celebrate anothersuccessful raid, her hands mapping the scars I’d earned keeping us both alive.
Used to look at me like I hung the stars instead of like I was the reason they were falling.
“I never fired on you,” I point out.
“You stole half my cargo and sabotaged my engines.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?” She spins to face me, green eyes flashing with anger and something that might be hurt. We’re close enough now that I can see the gold flecks in her irises, close enough that her body heat mingles with mine in the small space. “From myself? From my choices? From the possibility that I might actually be happy without you?”
The words hit like physical blows, and I feel my tail lash involuntarily. My enhanced senses pick up the spike of pain in her scent—old grief, carefully buried but still bleeding. “You weren’t happy. You were hiding.”
“I was healing.”
“From what?” The question tears out of me before I can stop it, raw and desperate and weighted with two years of not understanding why she’d chosen to disappear rather than fight for what we had. “What happened, Nova? What went so wrong between us that you’d rather fake your death than talk to me?”
She goes very still, and for a moment I think she might actually answer. Might finally tell me what drove her away, what I did or didn’t do that made loving me feel like dying. My enhanced hearing picks up the change in her heartbeat—pain and longing and fear all tangled together.
Instead, she turns back to the controls. “Your crew’s docking now. Packages should be aboard in five minutes.”
And just like that, the moment’s gone. But I can smell the grief on her, faint but unmistakable beneath the anger and determination and the arousal she’s trying to hide. Whateverbroke us, whatever sent her running, it left scars deep enough that she’s still bleeding.
The docking tube extends with a soft thunk, and I can hear my crew moving cargo with efficient haste. Kex’s voice crackles over the comm: “Packages secured, Captain. We’re clear.”
“Good.” I key my own comm, speaking to my crew but keeping my eyes on Nova, watching the way relief and determination play across her features. “Return to the Shadowhawk. Maintain safe distance and monitor for threats.”
“What about you, sir?”
What about me indeed. Two days ago I was hunting her across three sectors, convinced she was playing the most dangerous game in the galaxy. Now I’m abandoning my ship to help her deliver Christmas presents to families I’ve never met, and the only thing I’m certain of is that being this close to her is both agony and the closest I’ve been to home in two years.
