Page 5 of Stolen By the Wraiths
"And to stop him," I added, thinking of the corporate research. "What's he planning to do with it?"
"Something that will make what he did to us look like a minor incident."
We finally reached the old transit hub, a ghost station of silent platforms and dead escalators. A heavy-duty mag-lock door, triple-encrypted and tied into the station's central security grid, blocked our path. A lockdown pulse had sealed it tight.
"I can force it," Ressh said, his hand resting on the doorframe, muscles in his forearm bunching.
"And you'll bring every guard in the sector down on our heads," I said, pushing past him to get to the control panel. "This needs a scalpel, not a sledgehammer." I pulled my tool roll and got to work, my fingers dancing over the interface. The code was a nightmare, layers of corporate security protocols woven together, but they'd left a backdoor in a diagnostic subroutine, a sloppy mistake. Always a mistake. "Keep watch. Give me ninety seconds."
He didn't argue. He simply moved to stand behind me, his body a solid wall shielding me from the corridor. His scent, that wild blend of spice and something else, was stronger now, sharpened by adrenaline. He trusted me. The realization was a strange, unfamiliar jolt. No one trusted me. Not like this.
My focus narrowed to the lines of code scrolling past on my datapad. The sweat beading on my forehead was completely different from the cold sweat on my own skin. His presence was a silent, watchful weight. He was so close his warmth was a tangible contrast to the chill of my fear.
"They're coming," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my back.
"Almost there," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. I found the loophole and poured a cascade of commands into the system. A flicker of green light. A soft click. The mag-lock disengaged.
We slipped through the door just as a security patrol rounded the far end of the corridor. We melted into the shadows of the abandoned hub, the guards passing by without a second glance. For a long moment, we just stood there in the dark, breathing. The heat of him beside me, the controlled rhythm of his breath. A look passed between us—not of friendship, but of grudging, mutual respect. He was more than just muscle. And I was more than just a thief.
We found shelter in a derelict maintenance locker, a forgotten closet at the back of the hub. It was small, cramped, and smelled of rust and decay. There was a single, narrow bench bolted to one wall. One bed. Of course.
"We rest here," I said, sinking onto the bench. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. "Then we move."
He remained standing, his presence filling the tiny space. In the dim light, the silver traceries on his skin pulsed faintly.Before I could say another word, the sound of boots echoing in the transit hub sent a fresh spike of fear through me. They were still hunting.
RESSH
The sound of the patrol faded, but the tension in the small locker remained. I watched her, curled on the bench, trying to make herself small. She was exhausted, her face pale in the dim, flickering light of a single emergency strip. The air was cold enough to see our breath, two pale clouds mingling in the cramped space.
She was magnificent.
The thought blindsided me. It was unprofessional, a liability. But watching her work on that security panel, her focus absolute while I stood guard, had stirred something in me. She hadn't panicked. She hadn't deferred. She had taken command.
My failure in the nightclub felt like a distant memory, a different lifetime. Then, my instincts had been a source of shame, a loss of control. The biological imperative to protect, to claim, had felt like a weakness. Now, trapped with her in this metal box, those same instincts felt... right. The urge to protect her, to shield her, was no longer a flaw to be suppressed. It was a purpose.
I saw it then, a dark scorch mark on the sleeve of her jacket, near her shoulder. A plasma burn.
"You're hurt," I said, moving toward her.
She flinched. "I'm fine. It's just a graze."
"Let me see." I didn't give her a choice, kneeling in front of her and gently pushing the scorched fabric aside. The burn was angry and red against her skin. Not deep, but it would be painful.
I pulled a small med-kit from my belt. "This will sting."
I applied the disinfectant spray, and she hissed, her whole body tensing, but she didn't pull away. My touch was steady as I applied a thin layer of regenerative gel. Her skin was soft, warm. The scent of her, clean and sharp even under the grime of the tunnels, was a constant, maddening pull. It was becoming harder to separate the professional need to protect an asset from the primal urge to possess this woman. I was acutely aware of the difference between the delicate texture of her skin and the deadly competence she'd just displayed. She was a paradox, a puzzle I found myself desperate to solve.
My fingers lingered for a moment too long. I could feel the frantic beat of her pulse beneath my thumb. Looking up, I found her watching me, her expression unreadable.
The adrenaline finally left her, and the exhaustion hit her like a physical blow. Her eyes fluttered closed, and her head drooped, her body slumping against the wall. She was asleep in an instant, a deep, necessary surrender to a body pushed too far.
I watched her, my own fatigue a distant echo. My Tsekai physiology could sustain me for days without rest, but she was human. Vulnerable.
As I watched, she began to stir. A soft whimper escaped her lips, and her brow furrowed in distress. She shifted on the hard bench, her hands clenching into fists. "No," she muttered, her voice heavy with sleep. "Don't... please..."
A nightmare. The realization was a cold weight in my gut. I saw the trauma she hid so carefully beneath layers of snark and competence, now laid bare in the helplessness of sleep. My instincts screamed at me to wake her, to soothe her, to offer thechemical comfort my body was already producing. But I held back. It wasn't my place. Crossing that line would be a violation, a use of my biology she hadn't consented to. So I watched, and I waited, and every pained sound she made was a fresh torment.
She finally settled, her breathing evening out, but the image of her distress was burned into my mind. This fierce survivor, this brilliant operative, was haunted.
