Page 22 of Deserted

I squared my shoulders, turning to face the door as it slid open. My fate mate stood framed in the entrance, tablet clutchedin one hand, eyes blazing with determination and betrayal. Beautiful. Fierce. Alive.

Stars help me.

She was going to be the death of me.

And I’d die grinning.

9 /JAS

DayThree of being trapped in the bunker with Rhaekar, and I’d progressed from “terrified of the alien predator” to “annoyed by his stoic silence” to my current state: dangerously curious about everything he wasn’t telling me. The confrontation about the Swarm data I’d found had yielded just enough information to keep me from completely losing it, but not nearly enough to satisfy my journalist’s instincts. Or my increasingly inconvenient fascination with the golden-eyed Rodinian who saved my life and then proceeded to drive me crazy with his selective communication skills.

After discovering the footage on his system, I’d stormed into the equipment bay, tablet in hand, ready for war. What I got instead was a reluctant admission that yes, ancient tech called the Swarm was active beneath the surface. Yes, it might be drawn to my “unique biosignature.” And yes, we were in danger, which was why he’d sent a distress signal.

What he wouldn’t explain was why he’d kept hiding it from me, or why he kept watching me with that intense golden stare when he thought I wasn’t looking. Or why I kept dreaming about him calling me his “kassari.”

I’d pieced together enough from the Legion files to know that Rodinians were a feline-adjacent species with complex social structures and some interesting biological quirks. The files mentioned something called “Unity dreams” shared between potential mates, but the details were frustratingly vague. And every time I edged toward that topic, Rhaekar suddenly remembered urgent maintenance that needed his immediate attention.

But the worst thing about being stuck in a desert bunker with a grumpy alien warlord wasn’t the heat. Or the ration bars. Or even the sand that got into places sand should never go.

It was boredom.

The kind of boredom that made you do reckless things. Like poke a six-foot-plus predator with a stick. Or in my case, start asking too many questions about the swirling nightmare storm of alien tech buried outside.

“So... What’s the deal with the creepy alien signal you keep scowling about?” I asked, leaning against the monitoring station where Rhaekar had been standing motionless for at least twenty minutes.

He looked up from the console like I’d just asked if I could lick the sand. His ears—slightly pointed and adorned with those distinctive gold markings—flattened briefly against his head.

“It is not safe.”

“That’s not a deal. That’s a PSA.”

He gave me a look. The Rodinian equivalent of I’m warning you but also vaguely impressed. I was learning the nuances.

“The Swarm is not a foe you take lightly,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the small space between us. “This planet was once lush. Fertile. Until they came.”

Ah, the capital-S Swarm. That ominous proper noun he refused to elaborate on. He’d said just enough to terrify me and then clammed up. From what I’d gathered from my late-nightdata diving, the Swarm was some kind of semi-sentient tech that had decimated this planet before the Legion contained it. What remained were fragments—dormant until recently.

“Well, someone should’ve left a Yelp review,” I muttered. “’Zero stars. Swarm turned my jungle into a wasteland.’”

“I am serious, Jas.”

The way he said my name, with that slight growl on the ‘J’, sent an entirely inappropriate shiver down my spine.

I crossed my arms. “Yeah? So am I. If I’m stuck here, I need to know what I’m dealing with. Not just cryptic threats and the ‘don’t touch the glowy thing’ warning.”

His jaw flexed. Probably weighing whether to knock me unconscious for my safety or just carry me to the sleeping mat like a misbehaving kitten.

Which, honestly? Not the worst idea I’d ever had.

“I need to be able to defend myself,” I added, trying to sound serious and not like I was imagining him shirtless again. Because I definitely wasn’t thinking about the way his copper skin had gleamed with sweat after he’d returned from the perimeter check. Or how the Legion-issue undershirt had clung to every ripple of muscle across his broad back.

Nope. Completely professional thoughts here.

His ears flicked. “You would spar?”

The question caught me off guard. “What?”

“Combat training. You wish to defend yourself. I can teach you.” He tilted his head slightly, golden eyes narrowing. “Unless you are not physically capable.”

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