Page 13 of Naughty List Delivery
Close enough that my enhanced hearing picks up every change in her heartbeat, every soft intake of breath, every micro-sound that tells me she’s as affected by my proximity as I am by hers.
“Your ship,” I say abruptly, desperate to distract myself from the way her hips move when she walks, from the memory of how those curves used to fit perfectly against my hands. “It’s...”
“Different?” She glances back at me, and there’s something defensive in her green eyes. Something that makes me want to pin her against the wall and find out what other emotions I can put there. “Yeah, well. People change.”
But it’s not just different. It’s domestic. Soft. The sight of her transformed space sends an unwelcome wave of possessiveness through my chest—primal and territorial and absolutely inappropriate given that she’s made it clear she doesn’t want to be claimed.
There’s a tiny Christmas tree in what used to be our—her—quarters, complete with miniature lights that cast everythingin warm, golden tones. Family photos line the walls—not her family, but courier clients and their loved ones. Children drawing pictures for parents stationed light-years away. Couples separated by work or war but connected by the packages Nova delivers.
She’s turned her ship into a shrine to other people’s happiness, and seeing her sleeping space—HER space now—makes every territorial instinct I possess roar to life. This is where she dreams, where she’s vulnerable, where she’s been alone for two years. The bed is too small for two people, which means if I sleep here, we’ll be pressed together all night. Touching. Breathing the same air. Listening to each other’s heartbeats in the dark.
The thought makes my claws ache to extend.
“You kept the coffee maker,” I observe, latching onto the one familiar thing in the transformed space because it’s safer than thinking about that narrow bunk.
“I kept the things that mattered.” Her tone is carefully neutral, but I don’t miss the way her fingers trace the edge of the photos. “Everything else had to go.”
Everything else. Including me, apparently. The words hit like a blade between the ribs, sharp and precise and designed to remind me that whatever we had, she chose to cut it out of her life like a cancer.
My comm unit chirps, and Kex’s gravelly voice fills the small space, making Nova tense like she expects me to change my mind. To choose my crew’s concerns over her mission.
“Captain, you’re sure about this? Those packages are our only leverage.”
I watch Nova’s face as she waits to see what I’ll choose. Her mission or my pride. Her trust or my control. Standing this close to her while making the decision feels like baring my throat to a predator—vulnerable and arousing and terrifying all at once.
“Bring them over, Kex. All of them.”
The silence stretches for three heartbeats, and I can hear her pulse spike. The scent of her surprise—sweet and sharp—fills the small space between us.
“Captain, this is insane. Those containers could be worth—”
“The only thing those packages are worth,” I cut him off, my voice dropping to the command register that’s ended more arguments than I can count, “is the trust of the woman standing next to me.” I keep my eyes on Nova as I speak, watching the way her pupils dilate slightly, the way her lips part on a silent breath. “Transfer the cargo. Now.”
“But sir—”
“I’m the captain. They bring the packages. End of discussion.” I close the comm link with perhaps more force than necessary and turn to find Nova staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Heat and surprise and something that might be the beginning of trust. “You wanted trust? Here’s trust. Your mission. Your cargo. Your rules.”
Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe hope. For a moment we’re close enough that I could lean down and taste that hope on her lips, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she whispers, but her voice has gone rough in a way that makes my tail twitch with interest.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness.” The words come out rougher than I intended, weighted with two years of regret and want and the growing realization that I might have been wrong about everything. “I’m asking for a chance to earn it.”
“Nova,” PIP’s voice interrupts the charged moment between us, and I resist the urge to growl at the interruption. “I’m detecting three ships approaching fast. Krax’s configuration. ETA twelve minutes. Also, the ambient temperature in your quarters has risen another two degrees. Quite remarkable!”
Nova moves toward the controls, but I catch the slight tremor in her hands. Fear or adrenaline or the same awareness that’s making my skin feel too tight and my claws ache to extend. The way she moves in her own space—confident, competent, in control—does things to me that have nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with the way power looks on her.
“How long for the transfer?” she asks.
I check my internal chronometer, calculating dock time and crew efficiency while trying not to notice the way her body heat seems to reach for mine across the small space. “Eight minutes if they hurry.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then we find out how well your ship improvements hold up under fire.”
She shoots me a look that’s part challenge, part invitation, and entirely dangerous to my self-control. “My improvements can handle anything you throw at them.”
The double meaning hangs in the recycled air between us like a dare, and I have to fight every instinct I possess not to find out exactly what she means by that. Instead, I force myself to focus on the tactical situation, even though focusing on anything other than the way she smells when she’s aroused is becoming increasingly difficult.
