Page 19 of Alien Devil's Prey
"Twenty-six hours to The Maw," Tamsin said, confirming the navigation display.
The countdown had begun in earnest.
TAMSIN
We'd been running on autopilot for eight hours, the ship's systems humming quietly as we made our way toward the Drift Nebula. The cargo bay was stuffed with medical supplies, our new identities were solid, and there was nothing left to do but wait.
Which left me pacing the corridors like a caged animal.
I found Talon in the cargo bay, moving through a series of combat drills. He'd cleared a space among the supply crates, turning the cramped area into an impromptu training ground.
"Can't sleep either?" I asked, settling against the bulkhead to watch.
"Sleep is a luxury." He completed a complex sequence. "Better to stay sharp."
I watched him work, noting the way he controlled distance and timing. This wasn't just exercise—it was preparation for violence.
"That's not the kind of fighting you'll face on The Maw," I said finally.
He paused, considering my words. "You have experience with their methods?"
"I've spent years watching them." I pushed away from the wall, pulling up a schematic of The Maw's interior on my data pad. "The Syndicate trains its enforcers well, but they don't fight with honor. They use the environment. They'll come at you from a maintenance duct up here," I said, pointing to a spot on the schematic, "or use a chokepoint like this one to overwhelm you with numbers."
"Show me."
The request surprised me. I'd expected resistance, or at least skepticism. Instead, I saw genuine interest in his eyes—the recognition that I had valuable intelligence.
I used the cargo crates to map out a section of the station's corridors. "They'll try to funnel you here," I explained, gesturing to a narrow gap between two containers. "Two will engage you head-on, but the real threat is a third, waiting in an alcove here with a blade."
"A classic pincer movement."
"It's effective." I moved into the space. "They expect you to focus on the obvious threat. They don't expect you to know their playbook."
"So, what's the counter?" he asked, moving to stand opposite me.
"You don't engage in the kill zone. You change the terrain." I kicked a loose power conduit on the floor. "You create a barrier. An obstacle. Something that breaks their formation and forces them to come at you one at a time."
"And if you can't?"
"Then you do this." I moved toward him, not in a formal attack, but in a desperate, close-quarters rush, aiming for his knees.
He sidestepped easily, redirecting my momentum and spinning me around, his arm locking around my waist. Fora moment we were locked together, his strength a solid wall against my back.
"Not bad," he said, his voice a low rumble near my ear. "But they'll be faster."
"That's the point," I said, twisting in his grip. "It's not about winning the fight. It's about surviving it long enough to find an exit."
We continued working, moving through the scenarios I laid out. He was a quick study, his body adapting to the brutal, dishonorable style of fighting I described. But as we worked, I became aware of something else—the way his eyes tracked my movements, the way his breathing changed when I got close. The strategy session was becoming something more dangerous, charged with the tension that had been building between us since that night in my cabin.
"Focus," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was talking to him or myself.
"I am focused."
The way he said it made my pulse jump. When he moved again, I was ready for him. But instead of the controlled counter I expected, he swept my legs. His hands guided my fall, easing me to the deck instead of letting me crash. Before I could react, he was there, pinning me.
"Like that?" he asked, his voice rough.
I could feel the heat of his body against mine, could smell the salt of his sweat and something deeper that belonged uniquely to him. "Not bad," I managed, though my voice came out breathier than I'd intended.
