Page 4 of Naughty List Delivery
“Pretty words. But I’ve seen what hope gets you in this business.” He moves toward my cargo with that liquid grace that used to make my blood sing. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But I’d rather have you alive and angry than dead and noble.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharp as broken glass. “Touch those packages and I’ll show you exactly how much this reformed bad girl learned about creative violence.”
He pauses, one clawed hand hovering over the nearest container. “You’d fight me? Over strangers’ Christmas gifts?”
“I’d fight the devil himself to keep those families from waking up Christmas morning with nothing but empty promises.” The truth tastes like copper and determination. “I don’t abandon people anymore, Ober. I learned that from you.”
“From me?” His voice drops to something dangerously soft.
“You taught me that some things are worth fighting for. Worth dying for. You just never thought I’d apply that lesson to anyone but you.”
We stare at each other across the cargo bay, two years of hurt and need and unfinished business crackling between us like live current. His breathing is carefully controlled, but I can almost hear his heart racing—Felaxian hearts beat faster than human when they’re emotional.
Then he moves, smooth and decisive, selecting exactly half my packages with mathematical precision. Even in theft, he’s being fair. It’s such a fundamentally Ober thing to do that I almost smile despite the circumstances.
“Six hours,” he says without looking at me, moving to my engine compartment. “You’ll have power back in six hours.”
“The families waiting for those packages—”
“Will have to wait.” There’s genuine pain in his voice as he starts disabling my hyperdrive with surgical precision. “I’d rather have you alive and furious than dead and right.”
He’s almost to the airlock when I find my voice. “This isn’t over.”
He pauses at the threshold, looking back with an expression that could bring down starships. Longing and regret and something that might be hope, all wrapped in the careful control that’s kept him alive this long.
“I kept something of yours,” he says, voice dropping to that honey-dark register that used to make me forget my own name. His fingers brush his throat, where something glints beneath his shirt. “Something you left behind. Been carrying it for two years, waiting for you to come home.”
The admission hits like a plasma blast to the chest. Whatever he kept, it’s important enough that he’s worn it next to his heart for two years. Important enough to mention when he’s trying to wound me.
“So no, sweetheart,” he continues, and there’s something almost vulnerable beneath the predatory confidence. “It’s not over. It never was.”
The airlock seals behind him, and I’m alone with my broken ship and broken promises. Through the viewport, I watch the Shadowhawk vanish into hyperspace in a wash of distorted starlight, taking half my cargo and all my carefully rebuilt peace of mind.
But as I stare at empty space, I realize something important.
The old Nova would’ve given up. The new Noomi?
The new Noomi gets creative.
I’m already moving toward the engine bay, fingers steady as I examine Ober’s sabotage. Elegant work—he’s disabled without destroying, delayed without permanent damage. Professional to the core.
Too bad for him I learned a few things in two years of legitimate engineering.
Six hours later, the Star purrs to life with a sound like barely contained lightning. I haven’t just repaired his sabotage—I’ve improved it. My ship’s faster now, more maneuverable. Capable of jumps that would make customs inspectors weep.
The tracking beacon I slipped into my cargo—old habits die hard—transmits clearly from its hiding spot in the magnetic coupling of his stolen container. A little gift from the reformed pirate to the man who thought he could outsmart her. Heading for the Karrion Nebula, exactly where I’d go to ground if I were him.
Let’s see how he likes being hunted for a change.
“PIP, run a diagnostic on our defensive systems.”
“I was not aware we possessed defensive systems, Noomi. However, I am detecting elevated stress hormones and what appears to be significant reproductive attraction to the boarding party.”
I smile for the first time since he walked onto my ship—sharp, dangerous, nothing like the woman who used to melt under his touch. “Watch the sass, PIP. And the defensive systems? I’m the defensive system now.”
Two can play this game, Captain Kraine. And this Christmas, you’re about to learn exactly what two years of going straight taught this bad girl about being very bad when it matters.
I punch the engines and leap into pursuit, hunting algorithms spinning up in my nav computer. Algorithms he taught me, turned back on their teacher with interest compounded.
