Page 11 of Deserted

She wandered off toward the ration packs like she hadn’t just detonated a nuclear-level mating urge in me by saying the word “snack.” My mind immediately supplied the image of her sprawled across the monitoring console, her legs spread, my head between her thighs, feasting?—

I turned to face the far wall, inhaling sharply.

Meditation. Breathe. Focus.

I was a Reaper. I had been trained to resist pain, deprivation, and psychological manipulation. Surely I could resist one tiny, sassy human woman who smelled like warm sunlight and tasted like salted sweat and promise in dreams that felt more real than any mission I’d ever undertaken.

I lowered myself to the cold floor, crossing my legs in the traditional Rodinian meditation pose. The coolness against my heated skin helped ground me slightly. I closed my eyes, seeking the mental discipline that had carried me through countless battles and hostile environments.

My claws retracted slowly, though my cock remained inconveniently firm beneath my armor. I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t remind me of my body’s betrayal.

Unity dreams don’t lie.

She was kassari. Mine. Fate-mate. She didn’t know it yet, and I refused to pressure her into anything she didn’t choose for herself. That wasn’t the bond. That wasn’t us.

Still…

The soft sound of her rummaging through the storage compartments penetrated my attempted meditation. I heard the crinkle of packaging, the tiny sound of satisfaction she made when she found something appealing. Such mundane activities shouldn’t hold my attention so completely.

And yet.

Her laugh carried across the bunker as she discovered a particularly colorful nutrient pack. My heart did something deeply embarrassing in my chest—a flutter that belonged to adolescent cubs, not battle-hardened Reapers.

Stars help me.

I was going to die.

Either from mating fever or sheer humiliation when she eventually realized that the big bad Rodinian Reaper was having nightly wet dreams about her and mentally writing her name into the sand like a lovesick cub.

“Is this supposed to be fruit?” Her voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. “It tastes like someone described strawberries to a computer that’s never seen one.”

I opened my eyes to find her standing a few feet away, holding a red nutrient packet. The sight of her lips, slightly stained from whatever she’d been eating, nearly undid my carefully constructed calm.

“Synthetic compounds,” I managed. “Designed to approximate familiar flavors.”

“They missed the mark.” She shrugged, then added, “But I’m not complaining. Better than dying of starvation on alien death world.”

“The Burn,” I corrected automatically.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Alien death world.” Her smile flashed, quick and bright. “Though I guess it’s less deadly with you around.”

Something warm and dangerous unfurled in my chest at her words. Pride. Pleasure at the acknowledgment of protection provided. Ancient Rodinian instincts responding to the subtle praise from a potential mate.

She dropped onto the mat again, sighing contentedly, seemingly at ease despite her circumstances. Her adaptability was remarkable. I’d heard stories of the softer races. How most would be panicking, demanding answers, attempting escape. She had done all that initially, yes, but now she seemed to be taking the situation in stride, assessing, observing.

“Still meditating?” she teased.

“Yes.”

Also: imagining your thighs wrapped around my waist, your body arched beneath mine, your voice breaking as you scream my name the way you did in our shared dream.

“Cool. Have fun with that.”

I didn’t respond. If I opened my mouth now, the words “Let me claim you, little flame, let me ruin you gently” might escape—and then I’d really be in trouble. For wanting her.

So I stayed quiet. Still. Breathing in the scent of my fate.

She stretched out on the mat, her limbs extending gracefully. “How much longer until this storm passes, anyway? Not that I’m not enjoying our stimulating conversations.”

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