Page 43 of Deserted

“Don’t you dare!” I shouted, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Stay behind cover!”

Too late. He was already moving, drawing the drone’s attention with a display of Rodinian agility that under different circumstances would have been breathtaking to watch. Herolled, sprang upward, and flung a piece of debris at the drone’s sensor array with deadly accuracy.

It connected with a satisfying clang, knocking the drone off-balance for a precious few seconds. But the victory was short-lived. The drone recovered quickly, recalibrating its targeting systems with mechanical efficiency. Its next shot caught Rhaekar as he was mid-dodge, searing across his side in a flash of green energy.

I felt the pain through our bond—sharp, hot, then deliberately muted as he shielded me from the worst of it. That selfless gesture made me want to kiss him and kick his ass in equal measure.

“I swear to god, Rhaekar, if you die before I get to show you Netflix and actual Earth tacos, I will personally drag you back from whatever alien afterlife you have just to yell at you!”

His response was a grunt of pain followed by a rumbling chuckle that, despite everything, made my stomach do that stupid little flip it always did when he laughed.

“I look forward to these... tacos,” he called back, the words strained but determined.

“Then stop getting shot!” I wedged my hand deeper into the control panel, feeling for the activation switch I was certain had to exist. Legion tech was nothing if not practical—there had to be a manual override, a backup system, something I could...

My fingers brushed against a recessed panel. Bingo.

“I swear, if this turret doesn’t fire?—”

The panel lit up beneath my palm, ancient systems humming to life with a sound like an old refrigerator contemplating retirement.

“Oh thank god.” I slammed my palm on the activation plate, and the turret groaned to life like a pissed-off dinosaur coming out of retirement. It rotated, sensors scanning, mechanisms whirring as it oriented itself.

For one horrible moment, I thought it might target Rhaekar instead of the drone. But the Legion programming held—it recognized the drone as a threat, locked on with a series of staccato beeps, and fired.

Direct hit.

The drone staggered mid-air, green light pulsing erratically as the turret’s energy beam tore through its central processing core. It popped, sparked, made a sound like a dial-up modem having an existential crisis—and collapsed in a gloriously dramatic heap of twitching metal limbs.

I jumped up, triumphant. “Who’s the boss now, huh? Me! That’s who!”

Pride surged through me, amplified by the relief flowing through our bond from Rhaekar. I’d done it. I’d taken down one of these nightmare machines with nothing but some wire-crossing and determination. Not bad for a human journalist who’d never even changed the oil in her own car.

But the victory dance was short-lived because Rhaekar collapsed two seconds later, his tall frame crumpling to the sand like a marionette with cut strings.

“Rhaekar!” Terror seized my chest as I scrambled over the dunes toward him. Through our bond, I felt his pain—no longer muted but sharp and pulsing, his consciousness flickering like a faltering light. “No, no, no...”

“Hey! No dying!” I dropped to my knees beside him, catching his massive frame before he face-planted in the sand. The wound along his side was worse than I’d thought—a deep, scorched furrow that had burned through his combat suit and into the flesh beneath. Blood seeped slowly from the edges, dark against his copper-toned skin. “You are not allowed to die after that stunt. Or ever. That’s the deal.”

His lip curled in a weak smirk, those golden eyes finding mine with effort. “Would’ve died happy.”

“Not on my watch, desert daddy,” I growled, heaving him up with all the strength I could muster and dragging him back toward the shelter like a warrior with zero upper body strength and one giant alien boyfriend. My arms screamed in protest, but adrenaline and sheer stubborn determination kept me moving.

The bunker entrance gaped ahead, partially cleared of sand during our earlier efforts. Just twenty more feet. Fifteen. Ten.

He stumbled, barely keeping upright, his weight threatening to take us both down. “My mate,” he murmured, voice slurred with pain. “Fierce little human...”

“Damn straight,” I puffed, nearly collapsing under his weight. “You try to bleed out on me again and I’ll staple your wounds shut myself.”

We finally made it to the bunker. I got him inside, grateful for the relative coolness compared to the scorching desert heat. The space was small but functional—a standard Legion emergency outpost with basic survival equipment, a communications array, and most importantly, a medical station.

I dumped him onto the nearest med mat, wincing at his grunt of pain, and immediately activated every healing protocol I could find. The systems were old but operational, humming to life with the same reluctant energy as the turret outside. A holographic display flickered above Rhaekar’s prone form, showing a schematic of his body with the damaged areas highlighted in angry red.

“Multiple thermal lacerations to the torso,” the automated system announced in a voice that sounded like it had been gargling sand for a decade. “Moderate blood loss. Administering cellular regeneration protocol.”

I hovered anxiously as the med station deployed a series of slender arms tipped with instruments I didn’t recognize. They moved with precision over Rhaekar’s wound, applyingsomething that looked like liquid silver, sealing the damaged tissue with methodical efficiency.

Through our bond, I felt his pain begin to ease, replaced by a floating sensation that suggested the system had administered some form of painkiller. His thoughts brushed against mine—jumbled but tender, filled with relief that I was safe and a fierce pride in what I’d accomplished.

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