Page 41 of Naughty List Delivery
“Last family group is boarding now,” he says, but his voice is weaker than it should be, and I catch the way he leans against a support beam for balance. “Mother’s people are efficient. Everyone’s going to make it home for Christmas.”
“Including us,” I tell him firmly, moving to support his weight as his alien strength finally starts to fail. “But first we’re getting you to a medical bay before you collapse and make me explain to Mother why her best courier team is down to one person.”
His arm goes around my shoulders, and I feel the tremor in his muscles that speaks to blood loss and exhaustion and the kind of injuries that even enhanced healing can’t quickly repair.
“My mate,” he murmurs, the words carrying weight that goes beyond endearment to something deeper and more permanent. “Always knew you were braver than anyone had a right to be.”
“Save the romance for when you’re not bleeding out,” I tell him, but there’s no heat in it. Just relief that we’re both alive, both together, and forty-seven families are going home because we finally learned to be partners in everything.
Around us, the last families board rescue shuttles while Vex stands at his console, watching the tactical display that shows his brother’s escape pod disappearing into the void. The broadcast continues, showing the galaxy what Christmas looks like when it’s saved by people who choose love over revenge, conscience over convenience, hope over hatred.
But Krax is still out there, still angry, still dangerous. And Ober is still bleeding from wounds that might be more serious than either of us wants to admit.
The rescue isn’t over yet.
12
Christmas Comes Home
Ober
Thecoolantgasclearsfrom the engineering section just as Noomi’s voice crackles through my comm: “Power disconnected! Detonation charges should be offline!”
Relief floods through me so powerfully it makes my knees buckle. The families are safe. Forty-seven lives saved because my brilliant, brave, impossible mate refused to let me handle the dangerous part alone. Because she trusted me to coordinate while she took the risk that should have been mine.
The irony tastes like copper and regret—I spent three years learning to be worthy of her, and now I might not live long enough to prove it.
“Confirmed!” Vex’s voice echoes through the bay, carrying exhaustion and something that might be redemption. “All explosive systems disabled. The families are safe!”
I try to stand straighter, to project the strength that forty-seven terrified people need to see in their protector, but the plasma wound from Krax burns like molten metal through my side. Blood loss is making my vision flicker, and my enhanced healing—fast as it is—can’t keep up with the damage. Too much internal bleeding, too much trauma, too much time spent fighting when I should have been seeking medical attention.
Through the blast door openings, I can see the distinctive glow of plasma cutters and figures in heavy armor. OOPS rescue teams, cutting through reinforced hull like it’s made of paper. The sound of salvation approaching while I bleed and try not to let anyone see how badly I’m failing.
“Section A, this way!” I call out, my voice carrying more authority than my body feels capable of. The elderly Lividians support each other with trembling determination, their crystalline skin patterns flickering with hope instead of despair for the first time in days. Some elderly humans from Earth move slowly, her arthritis clearly aggravated by three days of captivity on metal floors.
“Medical priority for these fine folk,” I tell the approaching rescue medic, forcing my tactical mind to function despite the blood loss. “Severe arthritis, likely inflammation from stress and inadequate positioning. She’ll need anti-inflammatory protocols and joint support during transport.”
The medic nods, immediately moving toward the elderly human couple with portable medical equipment. The lady’s grateful smile as the pain relief takes effect sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with blood loss.
This is why we do this work. For moments like that—when competent care transforms suffering into relief, when professional attention shows people they matter enough to save properly.
Behind them, the family from Section B streams past—the woman, who worked three jobs to afford surprising her parents with their grandchildren’s first Christmas visit. Her children clutch hastily-gathered belongings while calling excitedly to their grandparents through the rescue comm system.
“Abuela! Abuelo! We’re coming home! The nice people saved us!”
The joy in those children’s voices cuts through my growing weakness like sunlight through storm clouds. Three jobs. She worked three jobs to make Christmas magic happen for her family, and we’ve given her that chance back.
The little girl from Section B stumbles past with her grandmother, both of them running toward freedom that tastes like recycled air and impossible odds overcome. She looks up at me with eyes too wise for her age and whispers, “Thank you for saving Christmas, nice alien cat man.”
My hearts clench with emotions I don’t have time to process. Children shouldn’t have to thank adults for not letting them die. Families shouldn’t have to be grateful for the basic right tocelebrate love and connection. But here we are, and somehow we’ve managed to give them back their Christmas miracle.
What I wouldn’t give to see Noomi’s face when children thank her. What I wouldn’t give to hold my mate while families reunite around us. What I wouldn’t give for the chance to claim her properly—not the desperate, dangerous claiming of pirates and adrenaline, but the slow, thorough claiming of a male who has time to worship every inch of his female. To mark her as mine in every way that matters, to spend Christmas morning in her arms instead of bleeding out on a platform while enemies escape and systems fail around us.
The memories flood through me as blood loss makes my mental barriers fail: Noomi’s scent when she’s aroused, the way she fits against my body like she was designed for me, the sounds she makes when I touch her in exactly the right way. Three years of dreams, three years of wanting what I thought I’d lost forever.
Now I might lose it again, just when she’s finally ready to let me back in.
“Ober!” Noomi’s voice cuts through my growing haze, and suddenly she’s back, plasma burns on her jacket and determination blazing in her eyes. She takes one look at my condition and moves to support my weight with the kind of protective instinct that makes my alien biology sing with possessive satisfaction.
