Page 49 of Delivered and Devoured
The datapad lowers. His eyes go from my face to the dress to the neckline to my bare legs and back up. Slowly. Then his gaze drops to the fabric at my hips and holds — the dress is thin, the dock light is behind me, and the outline of what is underneath is visible through the green. Lace edges. Dark. The shape of something that is doing a job, and the job is visible and his pupils lock on it and his ridges flush dark. Both arms. Instant.
“Hi,” I say.
“Lorri.” Nine days in his mouth.
“I read the manual.”
The datapad hits the desk. Fourteen years of filing first. The paperwork does not exist.
“And?”
“Page forty-seven. I memorized it. The bite, the venom, the bond. Permanent. Does not break.” I hold his eyes. “Inside of my thigh. High up. Only for you.”
Something cracks on his face. Wide. The face of a male who was told this would never happen, and the woman in front of him hasmemorized the page.
“Good girl,” he says. Soft.
His claws extend. Fully.
I bolt.
No head start. I run, and his footsteps are behind me — two strides — and a hatch slams between us.
“Captain!” HORATIO. Maximum innocence. “Welcome home! I appear to be experiencing a minor hatch malfunction. Most irregular. New firmware.”
Jazil’s curse is Skiveth and untranslatable.
I am running through the dock corridor in a green dress and boots and LAUGHING. HORATIO is buying me time. We have had a plan for four days — the schematics, the ventilation adjustments, the maintenance junction between the cabin and the head.
Bay 14. The ramp. Through the hold. Past the galley — two settings. Into the crew section. Maintenance access panel. Port side.
The duct is warm and dark and smells like him. The same position as a thousand colony hiding spots — knees up, spine flat, breathing shallow. The same shape I folded myself into when the drill officers swept the corridors and the access tunnels and the cargo tarps, and I was the girl who was so good at disappearing that disappearing became the only thing she was good at.
HORATIO has dispersed my scent across multiple zones. He can taste me, but he can’t pinpoint me.
I press my back against the duct wall. Hidden. The old shape. The new reason.
This time I want to be caught.
Footsteps on the ramp. Courting speed.
“HORATIO.” From the hold.
“Captain. I do apologize for the hatch malfunction.”
“You sent her the schematics.”
“She is very resourceful. I am merely supportive.”
His footsteps move through the hold. The soft flick of his tongue. Tasting. HORATIO’s dispersal working.
“Lorri.” The hunting voice. “I saw you in that dress on the dock.”
Past the galley. Slow.
“Every male on that concourse saw you in that dress. That neckline. The way the fabric sits on your hips. Those collarbones are mine. That throat is mine. The skin below that neckline is mine, and they saw it, and the dress is going to have to go, little human.”
My body flushes in the duct.
