Page 36 of Naughty List Delivery
The nice people. She means us. Forty-seven souls looking to a reformed pirate and a supposedly dead courier to work miracles they have no right to expect. The weight of that trust hits me like a physical blow, stealing breath from my lungs and making my hands shake with more than adrenaline.
But as I watch the grandmother stroke her granddaughter’s hair with trembling hands that speak to three days of maintaining strength she doesn’t have, something crystallizes in my chest. Not acceptance—never that—but a cold, clear understanding of what I’m willing to sacrifice to keep that child from spending Christmas in the vacuum of space.
Everything. I’m willing to sacrifice everything.
“Where do you think they are right now?” I ask quietly, keeping my voice low but knowing Krax can hear every word. “Lira and Zara. It’s Christmas Eve. What do you think they’re doing?”
Krax’s elegant features flicker with something that might be pain or might be the first crack in the composure he’s maintained through three years of systematic revenge. His phosphorescent patterns stutter like a display with power fluctuations, the steady rhythm of controlled fury disrupted by something that looks suspiciously like grief.
“Stop,” he says, but the word lacks the authority it carried moments before.
“Opening presents, maybe,” I continue, watching the way his hands clench involuntarily at his sides. “Or baking cookies with their mother. Learning Christmas carols. Making the kind of memories that children should have. The kind that last a lifetime, that shape how they see the universe, that teach them what love looks like when it’s not wrapped in conditions and revenge.”
“Stop,” he says again, louder this time, but I can see the cracks forming in his composure like stress fractures in durasteel.
Ober shifts beside me, his enhanced hearing picking up something I miss—the subtle change in Krax’s breathing pattern that suggests violence is building like a storm system gathering energy from solar radiation. His claws extend slightly, not enough to be obvious to the guards but enough that I feel theshift in his body temperature as his metabolism prepares for combat.
“The kind of memories they’ll never associate with their father,” I press on, because sometimes the truth is the only weapon we have, and I’m running out of ammunition. “Because he chose revenge over being worthy of their love. Because he decided destroying other people’s families was more important than building his own back together.”
“STOP!” Krax roars, and suddenly he’s moving toward us with fluid predatory grace, his claws extending fully and his phosphorescent patterns flashing with homicidal rage that turns his translucent skin into a light show of fury.
Ober intercepts him before I even realize I’m in danger, his enhanced reflexes putting him between Krax and me with the kind of protective instinct that makes my hearts skip a beat and my pulse race with more than fear. The collision sends them both rolling across the platform in a tangle of claws and fury—but this isn’t the brief scuffle I expected.
His alpha rage is unleashed.
Ober’s transformation is instant and terrifying. The controlled male who holds my hand so carefully, who touches me like I’m made of crystalline structures that might shatter under pressure, disappears completely. In his place is something primal and magnificent that sees threat to his mate and responds with overwhelming violence that speaks to evolutionary programming older than civilization.
His claws extend fully, curved killing instruments that catch the emergency lighting like polished blades. His spine curves into predatory positioning that makes him seem larger, more dangerous, absolutely lethal. The sound that emerges from his throat is pure territorial challenge, harmonics that make the guards shift nervously and several of the families press closertogether in instinctive recognition of an apex predator claiming his territory.
Krax meets him blow for blow, his own predatory instincts triggered by the combination of grief, rage, and the kind of desperate fury that comes from watching everything you’ve planned crumble in front of your eyes. They separate and circle each other with the wary respect of creatures who’ve tested each other’s capabilities and found them equally matched.
“Two minutes,” Krax gasps as they orbit each other like binary stars locked in gravitational combat, both bleeding from superficial wounds that paint their skin with colors that catch the light. But instead of backing down, the sight of his own blood seems to trigger something even more dangerous in him—the kind of berserker fury that doesn’t end until someone stops breathing.
Around the bay, guards shift nervously but don’t intervene. Whatever Krax told them about this demonstration, they’re not prepared for watching their leader try to kill someone with his bare hands while a countdown ticks toward the deaths of forty-seven innocent people. Their weapons track between targets uncertainly—do they stop the fight? Protect the families? Maintain position on the blast doors?
The uncertainty in their movements tells me everything I need to know: they’re mercenaries, not fanatics. They signed up for a paycheck and maybe some light terrorism, not watching children die while their boss has a psychological breakdown.
Krax lunges again, claws seeking the soft tissue under Ober’s ribs, but Ober’s enhanced reflexes turn the strike into a grab that sends them both crashing into the nearest support pillar. The sound of impact echoes through the bay like a gunshot, and several children start crying harder, their voices joining in a chorus of terror that makes my eyes burn with tears I can’t afford to shed.
“And these children?” Vex calls out over the sounds of combat, his melodic voice cutting through the chaos as he gestures toward the families in their energy-barrier prisons. His hands hover over the control console, trembling with internal conflict that plays out in phosphorescent patterns flickering between loyalty and conscience. “What memories will they make if this is how their Christmas story ends?”
“None,” he answers himself simply, and the word carries the weight of absolute finality.
His attention keeps drifting between his brother’s escalating violence and the children in Section B, his internal war playing out in colors I’ve never seen before—deep purples and blues that speak to emotions beyond normal fear or anger. Whatever he’s thinking, whatever he’s feeling, it’s tearing him apart with the force of revelation.
“One minute, thirty seconds!” Vex shouts over the violence, his voice cracking with strain as his brother and Ober tear into each other with escalating brutality that’s stopped being about strategy and become pure emotional release.
They separate again, both breathing hard, both bleeding more freely now from wounds that would require medical attention if any of us survive the next ninety seconds. But the space between them has shortened—they’re not circling anymore, they’re closing for a final exchange that will leave one of them dead or dying on the platform while children watch from behind energy barriers.
I can’t just stand here. Not while forty-seven people watch their supposed rescuers destroy each other. Not while that little girl looks at me with eyes that hold too much understanding for someone so young.
Moving carefully to avoid drawing the guards’ attention, I edge toward the nearest family section. The grandmother and granddaughter in Section B track my movement with desperatehope, and I see the moment when the old woman recognizes what I’m trying to do—not grand heroics, but the simple human gesture of getting closer to the people who need comfort.
“Are you going to save us?” the little girl whispers, her small voice cutting through the chaos of combat and crying and the mechanical hum of systems designed to contain death.
“Yes,” I tell her with absolute conviction, even though I have no idea how. “I promise. I promise you’re going home for Christmas. I promise you’re going to see your mama and papa. I promise.”
The words taste like hope and terror in equal measure, but they’re the truth as I understand it. Because the alternative—letting this child spend Christmas morning floating in space—isn’t something I can accept. Not while I’m breathing. Not while there’s any fight left in me.
