Page 12 of Naughty List Delivery
Station alarms start blaring, emergency lights flooding the docking bay in pulsing red.
“Attention all vessels. Unknown ships detected entering the system. All civilian craft are advised to complete docking procedures immediately and prepare for lockdown.”
Ober’s head tilts, enhanced senses picking up things mine can’t. “Three ships. Krax’s signature.” His expression shifts from predatory to protective so fast it gives me whiplash. “Time to go, sweetheart. Questions later, survival now.”
I should argue. Should demand answers about the packages, about who set us up, about why he looks like he wants to shield me with his body when two minutes ago I was interrogating him like a suspect.
But the Wandering Star’s sensors are screaming warnings about incoming ships with military-grade weapons, and those Christmas packages won’t deliver themselves if we’re both dead or sold to the highest bidder.
“My ship. Now.” I’m already moving toward the airlock. “And Ober? This conversation isn’t over.”
His laugh follows me into the ship, dark and knowing and absolutely certain that proximity to each other is about to become a much bigger problem than either of us anticipated.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart. But just so we’re clear—we’re about to find out exactly how well we still work together.”
4
“Baby, It’s Cold in Space”
Ober
TheWanderingStar’sairlockseals behind us with a soft hiss that reverberates through my bones like a promise and a threat. Hours ago I was in her cargo bay, but this—being inside her ship proper, in her living space—this is different. Two years since I’ve been in these corridors, and everything feels wrong.
No—not wrong. Different. Devastatingly, impossibly different.
“PIP, seal us up and prep for emergency departure,” Nova calls out, already moving toward the bridge with that liquid grace that makes my pupils dilate involuntarily. “I want to be ready to jump the second those packages are aboard.”
I key my comm as we move, speaking to Kex while my enhanced senses catalog every change in her transformed ship. “Transfer those packages and get clear. Rendezvous at Titan’s Edge—you know the coordinates.”
“Copy that. What about the station lockdown?”
“Let them think we’re complying. Full stealth protocols once you’re clear.” I close the channel and catch Nova watching me with something that might be approval. “Your ship first, questions later.”
But as we move through the corridor that used to house hidden weapon compartments—now displaying holographic family photos of smiling children and reunited couples—the tactical situation becomes secondary to the sensory assault of being in her space again. The air doesn’t smell like recycled atmosphere and barely controlled violence anymore. It smells like her—jasmine and determination and something that might be hope.
It smells like home, and that terrifies me more than facing down Krax Korvain’s entire fleet.
My enhanced senses catalog every change as we move deeper into the ship. The temperature has risen three degrees since I stepped aboard—my body’s automatic response to proximity with her, Felaxian biology betraying my attempts at emotionalcontrol. Her pulse is elevated too, that familiar rapid rhythm that used to drive me wild when I’d press my mouth to her throat.
“PIP,” Nova warns, but her voice holds barely suppressed amusement. The sound goes straight through me like an electric current, and I have to fight the urge to crowd her against the nearest bulkhead just to hear what other sounds I can coax from her throat.
“Oh, don’t mind me! I’m simply excited to observe the physiological effects of forced proximity on former romantic partners. My sensors are already detecting fascinating fluctuations in your bio-readings! Elevated heart rate, increased body temperature, pupil dilation, and what appears to be significant reproductive interest despite your obviously conflicted emotional state.”
Heat floods my face—actual heat that has nothing to do with my usual Felaxian warmth and everything to do with being called out by an AI with no sense of discretion. “Your AI is commenting on my—”
“Hormonal responses, pheromone output, and involuntary physical arousal indicators,” PIP chirps helpfully. “It’s quite remarkable, really. Noomi’s readings are equally fascinating, though she’s better at controlling her outward responses. The scent compatibility between your species is particularly—”
“PIP!” Nova’s voice cracks like a whip, but I catch the spike of arousal in her scent that confirms everything the AI just said.
“Right, right. Focusing on emergency protocols. But just so you know, Captain, the guest quarters have been converted to a rather lovely hydroponics bay. You’ll be bunking with Noomi. In her very small, very warm quarters. Sweet dreams!”
The silence that follows PIP’s announcement is deafening. Nova’s shoulders go rigid, and I can smell her arousal spike along with her panic—the same combination that used to driveme wild when we’d argue about raid targets and end up tangled together on whatever surface was closest.
My tail lashes involuntarily, and I force it to stillness before she notices. “I’ll take the cargo bay.”
“The cargo bay is full of Christmas presents,” she says without turning around, but I catch the way her breathing has changed. Shallower. Faster. “There’s a fold-out bunk in my quarters. We’re adults. We can handle sharing space for a few hours.”
Adults. Right. Because nothing about the way my body is responding to her proximity feels particularly mature. The ship’s corridors seem narrower than I remember, forcing me to follow close behind her—close enough that I could reach out and touch the vulnerable curve of her neck. Close enough that her scent wraps around me like a memory of every night we spent in hyperspace, her body pressed against mine while the void rushed past outside.
