by Presley Hall
The idea that I could need him. That he could matter to me, so vitally.
To my surprise, I see his expression soften as silence stretches between us. His gaze tracks over my face, and he takes a hesitant step toward me, then stops.
“Are you all right?” he asks. His voice is softer than before, but I’m not giving in to it.
I’m not letting him get the upper hand on me the way he did earlier.
Lifting my chin, I put on the mask I’ve worn all of my adult life, the one that says I don’t give a shit about him or anyone else. The one that says I’m tough enough to take care of myself. That I don’t need him.
“I’m fine.” My voice is curt, and I wave a hand, brushing his concern aside.
I can see from his narrowed eyes that he doesn’t believe me, but to my surprise, he lets it drop. Maybe because we really do have more important things to deal with right now.
Like fixing this damn AI.
“We need to find a manual override,” he says gruffly, as if he’s read my thoughts. “And we need to do it before this ship can land us on Damia. If we find the override, we may be able to take control of the ship ourselves.”
“You can fly it?” I ask, looking up at him.
He smirks at me. “Harper, I can fly anything.”
Well, then.
I follow him back down the bridge and to the corridor we came from, retracing our steps through the ship. I don’t know how much help I’ll be since I have no idea what we’re looking for or what to do with it if we find it. But I very much don’t want to be alone on the ship. Not with the AI malfunctioning the way it is.
We reach the corridor that we came from, and Malav turns toward what looks like a breaker box set into the wall.
“Nothing here,” he says after a quick inspection. “Let’s try this way.”
We head further down the corridor, stepping through a doorway into another intersecting hall. A second after we walk through the door, I hear the thud of heavy metal dropping shut behind us, and the hiss of escaping air. Malav pivots on his heel, his eyes widening.
“Desh,” he mutters, and I freeze in place.
“What’s wrong?”
“The airlocks are shutting.” Concern fills his voice. “What are you doing?” he calls up to the ceiling, clearly addressing the AI. “What’s going on with the ship?”
The same haughty male voice from earlier cuts through the air. “There is a malfunction with the gas lines,” it says coolly. “I am following protocol, and locking you in a safe location.”
“No. Nothing is wrong!” Malav shouts. “There’s nothing wrong with the deshing gas lines!”
“Please do not use profanity. You will be contained for your own safety.”
“The ship is fine!”
“You will be contained in thirty seconds.”
Malav curses again, loudly. “Come on!” he snaps at me. “We can’t get locked in here! Did you see where the captain’s quarters were?”
I shake my head.
“Twenty-five seconds.”
He lets out a string of curses. “This way!” he yells, grabbing at my wrist. “Let’s go!”
I have no choice but to follow him and pray he knows where he’s going, that a lifetime spent on ships like this will point him in the right direction.
“Twenty seconds.”
We barely make it through the next airlock. The one after that almost shuts on my heels, but we’re in a nicer part of the ship, and Malav pauses for a half-second, looking around wildly.
“Ten seconds.”
“In here!” he shouts, grabbing me and shoving me in front of him through a door. I stumble and fall into the room, with Malav just behind me.
“Five seconds.”
The door shuts, and I hear a whirring sound all around us, and the sound of a lock snapping shut as the door seals itself.
“You are now contained. You will be safe in quarantine until repairs are made.”
I’m glad I don’t understand what Malav shouts at the AI unit, because it sounds violent.
11
Malav
I have some small hope that there’s an emergency override, a way to get the door open, some possibility of shutting down the AI from in here. But it only takes a matter of minutes to find out that there is, in fact, no way out.
We are, as the AI said, contained in here until it thinks that repairs have been made.
And since no repairs are necessary, it’ll probably be after we’ve already landed on Damia and are well and truly out of luck.
The one bright spot is that I managed to get us into the captain’s quarters. Anywhere else and there’s a chance that we might have died of thirst before we reached Damia… and certainly afterward if the ship couldn’t be convinced to leave. But the quarters are well-stocked with everything we need. There are water rations and machines containing food, as well as a bathroom and a console where we can see what’s going on outside this room on the rest of the ship—not that it matters, since we’re the only ones on board.
So now it’s just a matter of Harper and me not killing each other before the ship, or the planet we’re heading to, can kill us itself.
I stop, sinking into the captain’s chair as I look at Harper, who’s frozen in the middle of the room.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice a little breathless.
“The AI glitched again,” I say grimly. “Our only hope of survival is that it might glitch yet again before we land on Damia and let us out of here. Because if we land there, we’re as good as dead. The planet will kill us immediately.”
I see pure, naked fear cross her face, followed by guilt, and then in a flash it’s gone as she quickly schools her expression, clearing it to her usual stubborn defiance.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve been frustrated with Harper, angry with her, irritated with her. She’s stubborn and bossy and can’t admit when she’s wrong, can’t follow orders and thinks the rules don’t apply to her. It’s infuriating. But I’ve never felt quite like I do in that moment.
Right now, despite my desire for her and the pull of the mate bond, I very nearly hate her.
Her stupid, stubborn impulsivity has taken me away from my people, away from my duties, away from my mission—away from everything in this world that matters to me, because she had to go off on her own and steal this godsforsaken ship. I’ve never felt fury toward a single person like this in my life. All the odds point toward us dying in a matter of days on Damia, far away from the people I’ve sworn my life to protect. I’ll never see my home again.
And here I thought it would be the Gronak’s poison that would kill me.
Despite all of that, somehow, when her mask falters and she turns sharply away from me, her face starting to crumple, the instinct to go to her is nearly overwhelming. Whatever personal feelings I have, there’s no doubt in my mind anymore that she is my Irisa. And the pull to comfort her, to protect her, to keep her safe… it’s almost irresistible.
But I’ve never been one to give in easily. Especially not now.
So instead of going to her as I watch her stride across the room with her back to me, I turn on my heel and stalk off in the opposite direction.
By the second day, I’m certain that this would be an effective method of torture, if anyone wanted to get information out of me.
We’re locked in this small space, with the newly sparked mate bond doing its level best to get us to consummate it. For her to give in to me, and for me to relax my self-control and claim her. We barely speak, but I can’t keep my gaze off of her. And I can tell she’s struggling as well.
I let her have the bed—despite my anger, I can’t shake the way I’ve been raised to treat a woman. I sleep in the captain’s chair by the console, when I can sleep at all. Rest comes in fits, disturbed by my jolting awake every time I hear a sound that I hope might be the AI glitching to a new personality, or the quarantine ending.
But nothing changes.
But more than that, my body is consumed with desire. Our mating is an important step in the confirmation of the bond, and with that bond activated, the drive to consummate it is maddening. I know it must be for her, too, and that only serves to worsen my arousal—knowing that she’s as lustful as I am. That if I went to her, if I pressed her, she would give in.
I can’t stop myself from looking at her whenever she’s not paying attention. I learn every part of her body from a distance in those two days—the shape of her face, every curve of her form, every inch that I long to kiss and touch and caress. My mind runs wild, imagining all the things I would do to her, every way I could make her come, and then the blissful pleasure of sinking myself into her, a pleasure magnified a hundred times by the bond between us.
I’m constantly, painfully, maddeningly aroused, and I think back grimly to when the other men and I teased Tordax for the hours he spent locked away with Rose.
Krax. I understand it now. If I could claim Harper, I too would spend hours finding every possible way to slake our desire with each other. The strength of my arousal feels as if it would take hours to satisfy.
And with every day spent in these close quarters, the harder and harder it becomes not to go to her and try to convince her once more that this is destined, that she is meant to be mine and I hers. If not for that godsforsaken glitch in the artificial intelligence unit, I would have had her a dozen times already, beginning with claiming her up against that wall in the corridor.
On the third day, I step into the small lavatory to take a shower—both because I actually need one, and to have a few minutes away from Harper. My mind is racing as I turn on the hot water and toss my loincloth aside, stepping into the spray with a groan of pleasure as it sluices over me. The baths back at the lodgings in Monri were lovely, but I’ve missed the relaxing feel of a hot shower raining down over me.
It’s a blissful break from pacing the captain’s quarters—both Harper and I—like animals in a cage, stopping only occasionally to snap at one another before stalking off to our own corners again.
I shake my head. How can this woman possibly be my mate?
She’s frustrating and headstrong to a fault, stubborn and foolhardy. She drives me insane in every single way and has since long before the bond, before I found out what it was like to want to claim her entirely.
But beyond that… she’s determined. She’s smart. She’s strong, and she doesn’t let adversity keep her down. She fights through it, and those are qualities I can appreciate. More than that—I respect them… and her.
On top of that, she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
Desh. I came into the shower to get away from her, and my desire, but it seems as if she and it follow me wherever I go now. Her face fills my mind at the thought of her, that sharp jaw and small, pert chin, her blazing hazel eyes that spark with fury when she’s angry with me—which seems to be more often than not.
And her body…
I feel a pulse of lust through my own body as the shape of her fills my thoughts, and I groan, leaning my forehead against the side of the shower as I try to fight it. But it’s impossible. I’ve spent more time these last few days hard than I ever have in my life—even when I was a younger man—and as my cock throbs and lengthens, rigid and aching under the hot spray of water, I’m desperate for relief. For anything that might stop this all-consuming need.
Without thinking, I grasp my shaft, my hand wrapping around the thick length of it. I try to suppress another groan, but it’s impossible. The pleasure of even my own touch is electric, shooting through my body as I begin to slide my hand along my cock.
There’s no finesse, no effort to prolong it. My fist moves in a blur, my knees unsteady as I drive myself headlong toward orgasm, the only thought in my mind the desperate, aching need to come. To feel some relief, even for a moment.
I think of Harper, of what she would look like beneath me in bed, that beautiful face upturned toward mine, her full lips pressed against my mouth. Of my hands on her slender waist, on the curve of her hips, the feeling of sliding myself into her wet, hot depths. I moan again, shuddering. I’ve never in my life been with a woman as beautiful as her. She would be desirable under any circumstances, but under these, she might as well be a goddess for how desperately I need her, how inflamed I am around her.
I grip myself harder, my hand flying along my hard shaft as I thrust my hips into my tight grip, trying to imagine that it’s Harper I’m burying myself inside, her body that will welcome my seed when I…
Oh. Oh, desh.
I feel the climax hit, nearly losing my balance as my cock throbs in my hand, pulsing with the incredible pleasure that washes over me in waves, my body drowning in the bliss of relief for a brief second.
And then, as soon as it passes, the desire flares up in me again. It’s slightly subdued, but not by much. My body craves more than a quick release by my own hand. I need more. It’s like a hunger welling up in me, one that can’t be satisfied easily, or by anything or anyone other than Harper.
I’m in hell, I think grimly, leaning back against the wall and closing my eyes.
Well, at least it will all be over soon.
12
Harper
I barely look over at Malav as he stalks off toward the shower, muttering something under his breath that I can’t quite hear and don’t care to.
I’m lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and wishing for anything to do. There are no books in here, and even if there were, they’d probably be in a language I can’t read. There’s no television, no social media, no internet to browse. And even harder for me after a lifetime of it—there’s no work to be done. I have literally nothing to do other than pace the room and try not to scream at Malav.
Or, even worse, fuck him.
The last few days have been torturous. If I had any doubts about this mate bond, they’ve been shattered by being trapped in here with the alien that some mystical force has deemed my mate.
Our emotions would be heightened even under normal circumstances. I’m angry at him for not being able to solve this and for being overprotective enough to follow me in the first place, making me responsible for his fate, and he’s furious at me for being stupid enough to steal this ship and put myself in this position.
Which, I will admit to absolutely no one but myself, silently—was stupid.
But these aren’t normal circumstances. With this mate bond activated, everything is dialed up to eleven or beyond. And on top of that, we’re in a room the size of my dorm back in college.
I can’t escape him. The entire room smells like the sheer male-ness of him, testosterone and arousal, mixed with that unique scent of sweet oil and his own skin that I’ve come to know intimately from the nights spent helping him with his medications.
And my body is currently insisting that I should get to know it even more intimately.
It’s hard to argue with that impulse—hard to keep it at bay when I see him every second of every day now. I have literally nothing else to do but stare at his bronzed skin and muscular body, completely naked except for that stupid loincloth that barely covers the one part of him I’m most curious about now. It’s more a tease than actual clothing. As he moves around, it often shifts in a way that very nearly offers me a glimpse of what’s beneath… but all I can see is shadows.
I want to see more than that. So much more.
My entire being is screaming at me to go to him and throw myself at him.
To strip that frustrating loincloth away, climb him like a tree, and consummate this bond between us.
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I feel a shudder ripple through me at the thought, my body pulsing with need, and I close my eyes, trying to take several deep breaths and calm myself down. I’ve never been this aroused in my life. I’ve never felt like I needed sex, like I would go crazy if I kept denying myself. I’ve never wanted anyone enough to humiliate myself by seeming desperate, and yet it seems more and more natural to let Malav know exactly how badly I crave him. As if it’s simply the natural order of things.
He feels it too, I know. He does his best to hide it, but I’ve caught glimpses of him erect beneath that flimsy covering more than once. That’s only made it more difficult for me to keep my distance.
As I let out another long, slow breath, I can swear I hear noises over the sound of water in the shower. And as I turn my head toward the door, I recognize them. They’re the muffled sounds of a man overcome with pleasure, and I realize with an electric pulse of lust exactly what’s going on in there. Malav is pleasuring himself—and probably thinking about me while he’s doing it.
I can’t help but listen. The sounds are choked, restrained, and I realize he’s trying to be quiet.
A flood of arousal washes over me at the thought. I’m suddenly wet, my whole body throbbing with desire at the picture of him stroking his cock in the shower, trying to smother his sounds of need for me as he works himself toward release, unable to keep silent because he’s so desperate for it.
Fuck, that’s hot.
It’s more than that. It’s thrilling and intoxicating, and I have to squeeze my hands into fists to keep myself from sliding one hand down and touching myself as well. The idea of bringing myself to orgasm while listening to his muffled groans from the other room sends a shiver through me, and I close my eyes, my mouth going dry as I try to resist the urge. It only intensifies when I hear the soft thud of him leaning hard against the wall, a sound coming from him that could only mean he’s coming. Then the only noise is the soft rattle of the water from the shower.
