Page 9 of Naughty List Delivery
Still mine.
My tail coils with anticipation, and for a moment I allow myself to imagine how this could go. She could run to me instead of from me. Could let me wrap her in my arms and my warmth and my protection. Could trust me to keep her safe while she completes whatever mission has her willing to risk everything.
We could be partners again. In every sense of the word.
But first, I need to prove to her that running from me isn’t just futile—it’s the most dangerous thing she could possibly do. Because while she’s been learning to go straight, I’ve been learning to hunt.
And I’ve gotten very, very good at it.
Time to reclaim what belongs to me.
3
I’ll Be Home for Christmas (If You Can Find Me
Noomi
MeridianStation’sDockingBaySeven smells like fuel vapors and broken dreams, but at least the Wandering Star’s tanks are finally full. Six hours of creative engineering after Ober’s sabotage means my ship is now faster than it’s ever been, but speed won’t help if I can’t complete my deliveries.
Because half my Christmas cargo is sitting in the hold of a pirate ship, and three families are counting on me to deliver miracles I no longer possess.
The Hendricks family package. The terraforming station delivery for that single father and his daughter. The Meridian Outpost run for a mother who hasn’t seen her children in eight months. All stolen by the one man in the galaxy who should understand what it means to keep promises.
But here’s what’s eating at me—how did Ober know about this job?
Mother’s been running OOPS for twenty-three years, and her routes are tighter than military encryption. Corporate courier work doesn’t just randomly attract the attention of the most feared pirate captain in three sectors. Which means either Mother’s security is compromised, or someone fed Ober information about my Christmas run.
Someone wanted him to intercept me.
The question is: who, and why?
My modified tracking beacon chirps softly from my console, displaying Ober’s location with cheerful precision. Three systems away according to the readout, probably examining those stolen packages and questioning whether I’m really running charity work or something more lucrative.
But my skin is crawling with the kind of awareness that has nothing to do with electronic signals and everything to do with survival instincts honed by three years of partnership with a predator.
“PIP, run another scan for ships matching the Shadowhawk’s configuration,” I mutter, fingers drumming against the control panel in a rhythm that matches my elevated pulse. “And cross-reference any vessels that filed flight plans to intercept OOPS Christmas routes.”
“Scanning, Noomi. However, I should note that you’ve requested similar scans eighteen times in the past hour. Are you experiencing equipment malfunction symptoms? Or perhaps romantic paranoia manifestations?”
“Watch it, PIP. And it’s not paranoia if someone actually is hunting you.”
The scan results populate my screen, and my blood goes cold. Three ships filed flight plans that would intersect known OOPS Christmas delivery routes. One matches the Shadowhawk’s configuration. The other two...
“Son of a bitch,” I breathe. “PIP, those other ships—identification?”
“Unknown configurations, but energy signatures suggest information broker operations. Shall I cross-reference with known criminal databases?”
“Do it.” But I already know what he’ll find. Information brokers don’t hunt Christmas couriers unless someone’s paying very well for specific intelligence. They deal in the currency of ruin—blackmail material, hidden identities, family secrets that fracture bloodlines. In the right hands, one well-timed revelation is worth more than a cargo hold of weapons. The kind of intelligence that could expose a supposedly dead pirate who’s been inconveniently breathing and delivering legitimate packages.
Someone set me up. Used Mother’s Christmas run as bait to flush me out of hiding. And Ober—the possessive bastard—walked right into it.
Which means we’re both being played.
The beacon shows Ober still three systems away, but learned early in our partnership that Ober Kraine doesn’t always announce his presence on official channels. Stealth modifications, false transponders, and a Felaxian’s natural patience make him the perfect ambush predator.
My fingers drift to my throat automatically, searching for the pendant that isn’t there—hasn’t been there for two years. The bio-reactive crystal that used to glow warm against my skin whenever he was close, a constant reminder that someone dangerous and possessive had claimed me as his own.
I’d almost thrown it into a recycling chute when I faked my death, but instead I hid it from my sight in a small zipper pocket I swore never to open again. The phantom heat still blooms across my skin at the memory. The way it felt like carrying a piece of him everywhere I went. The way he’d press his mouth to that exact spot and whisper “mine” like a prayer and a promise.
