Page 8 of Naughty List Delivery
The present crashes back as my comm unit chimes with an incoming message. I check the display—it’s from my network of informants, the web of contacts that had helped me track Nova across half the galaxy.
“Target spotted at Meridian Station. Docking Bay 7. Fuel reserves critical—she won’t be leaving anytime soon.”
Perfect. But the engine improvements mean she’s been busy during those six hours I gave her. She’s not just repairing and refueling—she’s upgrading. Planning. Thinking three moves ahead like she always did.
I turn to Kex, who’s been watching me with the patient expression of someone who’s seen his captain wrestle with demons before. “Change of course. Meridian Station, full burn.”
“Captain,” Kex’s voice holds a warning. “Meridian’s neutral territory. Station security won’t appreciate a firefight.”
“There won’t be a firefight.” I can feel my pupils dilating with anticipation, another alien trait I can’t suppress. “Nova’s too smart to risk civilian casualties. She’ll come quietly.”
She’ll have to.
My hands move over the navigation controls with practiced efficiency, inputting the hyperspace coordinates that will take us to Meridian. The Shadowhawk responds like the predator she is, engines purring with barely contained power as we leap into the void between stars.
Time to take the choice away from her.
The approach to Meridian Station gives me time to think, to plan. The station is a rough-hewn asteroid hollowed out and converted into a refueling depot, the kind of place where credits talk and questions are discouraged. Perfect for a confrontation that needs to stay off official records.
More importantly, it’s a maze. Narrow corridors, multiple levels, cargo containers stacked like building blocks. The kind of environment where a Felaxian’s enhanced senses and natural agility become significant advantages.
She’ll be expecting a direct confrontation. The old Nova would have prepared for me to swagger through the main docking bay like I owned the place.
But the new Ober has learned patience. Has learned to savor the hunt.
I can picture her ship in the docking bay now, those engine improvements humming with barely contained power despite her fuel situation. She’d be pushing her systems hard, trying to make up time after our encounter and complete her deliveries before I could interfere again. It was exactly the kind of calculated risk the old Nova would take—dangerous, but with enough margin for error to make it work.
Unless someone who knew her patterns was waiting.
The Christmas music shifts again—something about silver bells and city sidewalks. It should be comforting, but all it does is remind me of what I’ve lost. What I’m fighting to reclaim.
“Dropping out of hyperspace in thirty seconds,” Kex announces.
I stand, my tail coiling with anticipation. Two years of hunting, two years of wondering if she was really dead, two years of aching for a woman who’d chosen to disappear rather than stay with me.
Time to get some answers.
Meridian Station’s docking bay sprawls before us like a metal maze, perfect for a hunt. The Wandering Star sits in the center like a wounded bird, but even from here I can see the signs of her work—new exhaust configurations, enhanced cooling systems, subtle modifications that speak to six hours of focused engineering brilliance.
She’s here. She’s been busy. And I’m about to teach her exactly why disappearing from Ober Kraine was the worst mistake of her life.
But as I watch her ship through the viewport, something twists in my chest that has nothing to do with predatory satisfaction. She’s alone out there. Running from something—or someone—dangerous enough to make her accept impossibly high-paying jobs. Pushing her ship past safe limits because she’s desperate to complete whatever mission she’s on.
The woman I loved used to have backup. Used to have a partner who’d die before letting harm come to her. Used to have me.
Now she’s flying solo through territories that would eat her alive if they knew who she really was. The reformed corporate courier act might fool customs inspectors, but pirates like Frex Korvain? Information brokers with long memories and longer grudges? They’d see through her disguise in heartbeats.
She needs protection. Even if she doesn’t want it. Even if she hates me for providing it.
Especially then.
My pupils dilate in anticipation as I step toward the airlock, every enhanced sense already cataloging the environment. The docking bay reeks of fuel and desperation—exactly the kind of place where dangerous people settle dangerous business.
I move through the shadows between cargo containers, my enhanced senses picking up traces of her scent on the recycled air. Jasmine and starlight and that indefinable something that screams home to every predatory instinct I possess.
She emerges from her ship, and like always, the sight of her hits me like a plasma bolt to the chest. Two years, and she’s still the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Her dark hair is shorter now, more practical than seductive, but she moves with that same liquid grace that used to make my blood sing.
Different, but not diminished. Changed, but still fundamentally Nova.
