Page 23 of Ashes & Aether

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Then I am the exception.”

A feral grin stretches across my face, and I shift my weight, turning my body entirely toward hers. I watch her pupils dilate. The physiological response she despises so much.

“You are definitely an exception,” I purr.

Maggie’s left eyelid gives that rapid, beautiful little twitch. She breaks eye contact, returning her attention to the holographic map. She reaches out, her pale hand moving through the blue light.

“The eastern ridge is holding,” she says, deliberately changing the subject. She points to a cluster of blue markers. “But the supply lines from the north are choking. We need to route the next convoy through the M1 corridor.”

I narrow my eyes at the area she’s indicating. “The M1 is a graveyard.”

I lift my hand, bringing it over hers to manipulate the hologram.

My knuckles brush against the back of her hand.

A visible spark of static electricity snaps between our skin. Maggie gasps, a sharp intake of breath, and yanks her hand back, clutching it against her chest.

I freeze. The touch was accidental, but the surge of heat that rockets through my veins is absolute. My twin hearts slam against my ribs, a synchronized drumbeat. The glowing orange filaments along my throat flare brighter, reacting to the sudden spike in my pulse.

Avaren biology demands connection. For centuries, I have controlled every interaction, manipulated every touch. But standing here, in this freezing bunker, brushing against a human female who treats me like a tactical annoyance, my body reacts with violent, unchecked possessiveness.

Maggie stares at my throat, watching the orange light pulse. A flush of dark pink creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks.

SUBJECT: ELMSLEIGH, MARGARET.

THREAT ASSESSMENT: COMPROMISING SANITY.

“Apologies,” I say, my voice scraping the bottom of its register. “Static.”

“Yes,” Maggie breathes out, her voice shaky. She clears her throat and takes a half-step backward, putting a sliver of breathable air between us. “Static.”

She drops her hands to her sides, her fingers curling into fists to hide the slight tremble. She stares at the map, refusing to look at my glowing skin. “If the M1 is a graveyard, we route them through the secondary roads. The A43.”

“The Ghorvek are adapting.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to suppress the ache building in my groin. The synth-weave fabric is far too unforgiving for this level of arousal. “They are establishing ambush points. You send a convoy down your A43, you will lose the vehicles and the men driving them.”

“We need the antibiotics from the northern cache!” Maggie snaps, the icy commander returning. She glares at me, the flush on her cheeks the only evidence of her momentary lapse in control. “My medics are using recycled bandages. Men are dying of basic infections.”

“Then I will go.”

Maggie stops. She blinks, the anger draining from her face, replaced by genuine confusion. “What?”

“I will take the Veil. I will fly to your northern cache, load the antibiotics into my cargo hold, and deliver them to your medics.” I tilt my head. “Air superiority bypasses the ambush points entirely.”

She raises one perfectly groomed dark eyebrow. “You would act as a delivery boy?”

“I would act as a strategic asset ensuring the survival of my allied forces.” I take a slow step forward, backing her subtly toward the edge of the metal table. “Why is it so difficult for you to accept help, Maggie? Why do you insist on fighting this war with both hands tied behind your back?”

“I am not⁠—”

“You are.” I take another step. Her hips hit the edge of the table. She’s trapped again. “You kicked your generals out of this room because you trust my judgment more than theirs, but you refuse to admit it.”

I lean down, bracing my hands on the table on either side of her waist, caging her in.

“What are you hiding behind all this armor, Margaret Elmsleigh?” I whisper.

She doesn’t shrink away. She doesn’t cower. She lifts her chin, her eyes blazing with a defiant fire.