Page 42 of Naughty List Delivery
Mine. Even when I’m failing, even when I can’t protect her the way every instinct demands, she’s still mine. Still chooses to stand with me while the galaxy watches our love story unfold in real time.
“How bad?” she asks quietly, her scent carrying fear and fury in equal measure.
“Bad enough that I’m grateful,” I tell her honestly, leaning into her strength while my own fades. “Grateful we found each otheragain. Grateful you let me prove I could change. Grateful you’re here, even if—”
“Don’t.” Her hand finds my face, warm and steady against skin that’s growing cold despite my enhanced metabolism. “Don’t you dare say goodbye to me when we just figured out how to be partners in everything.”
The blast doors finally give way completely with sounds like thunder, and Mother’s rescue teams pour through in organized waves. The efficiency is beautiful to watch—medical personnel immediately triaging the families while security sweeps for remaining threats, communications specialists coordinating transport assignments, and logistics teams ensuring every single Christmas package is accounted for.
Through my comm, Kex’s gravelly voice crackles with military efficiency: “Captain, rescue coordination is proceeding smoothly. Shadowhawk and Crimson Tide are escorting family transports to designated safe zones. All Christmas packages secured for delivery.”
“Transport assignments?” I manage, though speaking is becoming more difficult.
“Transport Seven has the Yamamoto family and three others from Section B—destination Kepler Mining Station, priority medical en route for the elderly gentleman’s cardiac issues. Transport Twelve is handling Section A evacuees, including your Kowalski priority case. Transport Fifteen...” He continues with the systematic precision that reminds me why I chose him as second-in-command.
My crew. Still following orders, still protecting the mission, still making sure every family gets their holiday celebration despite the chaos we’ve survived. Each transport carefully matched to passenger needs, each destination confirmed with families waiting anxiously for news.
“The young Therian couple from Section C,” I ask, my enhanced hearing tracking their voices through the evacuation noise. “The ones with the bonding crystals?”
“Strava and Kelvin? They’re on Transport Nine with the other bonding-age adults. Stravan asked me to tell you they’ve decided to have their ceremony tomorrow—says surviving this together proved they don’t need to wait for perfect circumstances.”
A wedding born from surviving terror together. The kind of love story that emerges from darkness stronger than it went in. I think about bonding ceremonies, about the claiming rituals my species uses to mark permanent mates, about how desperately I want to perform those rituals with the woman currently holding me upright.
“Good,” I whisper, meaning it with every cell in my body. “Make sure they get priority transport and safe passage. New bonds deserve protection.”
“Already handled, sir. ETA to their homeworld is eighteen hours, medical support standing by.”
Even dying, I’m still thinking like a protector. Still calculating who needs care, who requires assistance, how to ensure every soul under my protection reaches safety. It’s what I am—what we are—and I’d rather burn out doing this work than fade away having accomplished nothing.
“Attention all rescue teams,” a new voice cuts through the comm with the kind of authority that makes smart people stand straighter. “This is STI Coordinator Luzrak, operating under official emergency protocols. All civilians are to be processed through medical screening before transport. Priority goes to elderly, injured, and children under twelve.”
Luzrak. Mother’s mate, arriving with the government authority to make this rescue legally bulletproof. Through my fading vision, I catch sight of him coordinating with the rescue teams—tall, elegant, moving with the predatory grace that marksenhanced Kytherian senses. His amber eyes sweep the bay with tactical precision, cataloging threats and calculating logistics with the kind of competence that explains why Mother chose him.
“Furthermore,” Luzrak continues, and there’s satisfaction in his tone that suggests he’s enjoying this, “be advised that this operation is being broadcast across seventeen star systems. Any interference with family reunification efforts will result in charges of terrorism and crimes against civilian populations.”
Vex’s broadcast. Still running, still showing the galaxy what happens when people choose love over revenge, conscience over convenience, hope over hatred. Through the ship’s communication system, I can hear fragments of responses from across known space—news anchors trying to verify the transmission, family members recognizing loved ones on screen, government officials demanding immediate action.
“—confirming reports of a Christmas family rescue operation broadcast live across multiple systems—”
“—children as young as five being held hostage in what appears to be a revenge plot against courier personnel—”
“—unprecedented cooperation between OOPS civilian contractors and STI military forces—”
The galaxy is watching. Seventeen star systems seeing families just like theirs being saved by people who refuse to let Christmas die. Children across known space learning that sometimes adults do keep their promises, that sometimes the good people win, that sometimes Christmas miracles happen because someone decides they’re worth fighting for.
“Ober,” Noomi’s voice draws my attention back to her face, and I realize I’ve been staring at nothing while my blood pressure drops. “Stay with me. The families are safe, the rescue is succeeding, and you’re going to live to see them all get home.”
But I can’t rest. Not while families need coordination, not while my crew needs orders, not while the woman I love risks herself to save others. The plasma wound Krax inflicted burns through my side like liquid fire, and I’m losing blood faster than even my enhanced healing can compensate. Each heartbeat sends less oxygen to my brain, making the edges of my vision flutter like dying stars.
My senses catalog every detail while they still can: the family reuniting with tears and promises of Christmas cookies, young adults clutching bonding gifts while making new plans for ceremonies that will be more meaningful because they were almost lost, elderly couples supporting each other toward transports that will carry them to grandchildren who thought they were gone forever.
Through the chaos, I watch individual moments that crystallize the importance of what we’ve accomplished:
A mother embraces her children while promising them hot chocolate and storytelling when they reach their grandparents. Her three jobs, her sacrifice, her desperate hope—all validated by the simple fact that her family will spend Christmas morning together instead of mourning.
The elderly Lividian couple shuffle toward their transport, their crystalline skin patterns now pulsing with joy instead of despair. Their final journey to see clutch-siblings, delayed but not destroyed.
A young Gluxian couple from Section C clutch each other and their bonding stones, making plans for a ceremony that will be more meaningful because they nearly lost the chance entirely.
