Page 3 of Naughty List Delivery
“Docking Bay Two,” I say, steadier than I feel. “But you’re not welcome here.”
“We’ll see about that, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. Like a physical touch across two years of distance, that endearment hits me where I live. How many mornings had I woken to that voice? How many nights had it whispered promises in languages I’d never learned?
I wait in the cargo bay, trying to control my breathing while the ships dock. My heart hammers loud enough that he’ll probably hear it through the bulkheads—his alien senses always were sharper than human standard. The Shadowhawk’s docking clamps engage with a soft thunk that reverberates through my bones like a remembered caress.
The airlock cycles with a soft hiss, and Ober Kraine steps onto my ship like he owns it—like he owns me. The temperature in the cargo bay seems to rise ten degrees just from his presence, that Felaxian heat signature I used to wrap around myself like the galaxy’s most dangerous blanket.
Son of a bitch.
He’s exactly the same and completely different—two years have carved new lines around those dark eyes, but the predatory grace remains. He moves like gravity is negotiable, like physics bend around him the same way I used to. His dark hair’s longer now, touching his collar in waves that catch the cargo bay’s harsh lighting. There’s a new scar through his eyebrow that makes him look even more like trouble wearing a leather coat.
The soft fur along his jawline catches the light as he turns his head, scanning my ship with those too-keen eyes. That damned cat-like tail of his flicks once—a tell I used to find endearing when it wrapped around my waist possessively. Now it broadcasts barely restrained energy, coiled tension looking for a target.
But it’s still him. Still the man who taught me to fly like the void was an ocean, to fight like my life was a negotiable commodity, to steal hearts with the same skill I used on cargo holds.
“Hello, Nova.” His voice could melt hull plating, and I feel it in places I’d forgotten existed.
“It’s Noomi now,” I say, lifting my chin in defiance. “Nova died in that transport explosion, remember?”
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe recognition of what I’m really saying. That the woman he knew, the woman he loved, chose to die rather than stay with him.
His smile could cut diamonds. “Funny. You still smell like mine.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I hate that my body betrays me. After two years, after everything that happened between us, one sentence and I’m back to being the woman who melted under his touch.
“I’m not yours,” I manage, crossing my arms to put barriers between us that aren’t just physical. “I haven’t been yours for two years.”
“Haven’t you?” He steps closer, and I catch his scent—alien spice and engine oil and something that used to be my favorite addiction. The memory of his fur soft under my fingertips, his tail wrapping possessively around my waist, hits me with physical force. My skin remembers the way his alien heat felt against my back during cold hyperspace nights, how his purr would vibrate through my bones when I touched him just right.
His nostrils flare slightly, and I know he’s reading my pheromones, cataloging my fear and anger and the treacherous spike of want I can’t quite suppress. “Because your pulse just spiked. Are you afraid of me, sweetheart? Or afraid of what you still want me to do to you?”
“I’m afraid you still think charm works on me.” But my voice comes out rougher than intended, and his tail does that little flick that means he heard it too. “Some of us learned to think with organs above the waist, Ober.”
His laugh is dark velvet with an edge of steel. “Funny, I remember you thinking very creatively with all sorts of organs. Especially around Christmas.”
The memory hits like plasma fire—Christmas morning three years ago, his hands mapping every inch of my skin while snow fell outside our hideout on Cassian Prime. The way he’d whispered my name like a prayer, like I was something sacred instead of just another thief in his bed.
“That woman is dead,” I say, but even I can hear the lie in my voice.
“Is she?” He circles me slowly, predatory and graceful. My pulse hammers against my throat, and I know he can hear it—enhanced Felaxian senses cataloging the way my breathing has gone shallow, the heat rising in my cheeks. The space between us crackles with two years of separation and the muscle memory of what we used to be together.
“Because you still react when I get close enough to touch.”
He’s right, damn him. Every instinct I spent two years suppressing is screaming at me to either run or surrender, and I’m not sure which would be more dangerous.
“What do you want, Ober?”
“I’m taking half your cargo.” His expression shifts, predatory amusement replaced by something harder. “I know what you’re really carrying, Nova. And I won’t let you get yourself killed delivering weapons to our enemies.”
“Christmas presents,” I say flatly. “They’re Christmas presents.”
He laughs, and it’s not a pleasant sound. “Right. And I’m running a charity for displaced orphans.” He gestures at the containers. “Military-grade quantum locks for holiday gifts? Priority routing through pirate territories? Payment rates that could buy a small fleet?”
“Maybe because some gifts are worth protecting.” I step into his path, close enough that his alien warmth washes over me like a memory. “These aren’t weapons, Ober. They’re hope. They’re proof that somewhere in this cold universe, people still care enough to send love across impossible distances.”
Something flickers in his eyes—doubt, maybe. Regret. But it’s gone so fast I might have imagined it.
