“Eight thousand. Seven.”
A single bead of sweat crept down the back of her neck.
“Six. Five. Four thousand.”
Another hit shook the Phantom. The small ship wanted to buck from her control, but she wrestled it into compliance, feeling a burn in her muscles.
“Three thousand. Two.”
Celene kept her gaze focused on the PRAXIS ship throttling toward her. She felt energized, calm. Especially knowing that Nils had her back, keeping the cutter at a distance with his secondary weapons. His steadiness served as an anchor, giving her the room she needed.
“One.”
She could just make out the smaller details of the fighter rocketing toward her: the ship’s registration number emblazoned on its side, the metal casings of the guns along its wings. In a moment, she would know the inner workings of the fighter, if the Phantom collided with the enemy ship.
Milliseconds before impact, she pulled up hard on the controls. The Phantom flew straight up, narrowly avoiding the collision.
The cutter and fighter, however, weren’t as lucky. Waves of concussion rocked the Phantom as the two PRAXIS ships rammed into each other. They exploded in a huge ball of energy, and the force of their crash sent surges of energy outward, shaking the Phantom.
She wrestled the ship under control, then brought it back around to face the remaining disabled PRAXIS fighter. It immediately turned and sped away. She started to give chase.
“Our engines took some bad hits,” Nils said. “If we pursue at top speed, we’ll blow ’em out too badly for me to repair them.”
With a frustrated oath, she broke off the pursuit, bringing the Phantom back around toward Gabela’s ship. Her heart still pounded from the rush of combat, and when she glanced over at Nils, he gave her his raffish grin, transforming the serious engineer into a scoundrel.
“I believe the proper word to describe your strategy is ballsy. The better designation might be fucking crazy.”
Celene laughed. “Going to report me? I could be eligible for Sigma Seven status.”
He shook his head. “I suspect every combat pilot is eligible for Sig-Seven. We’d have no one to fly Wraiths. They’d all be undergoing psych protocols.”
“At least I’d have company,” she answered. “You’d be right there with me.”
His smile felt like a sun rising inside her chest, made even better by the genuine pleasure gleaming in his eyes.
“I would, wouldn’t I?” He sounded surprised and gratified.
His gaze suddenly sharpened, becoming focused and determined. He turned toward her and unfastened the buckle of his seat restraint.
“What is it?” She frowned, wondering if something was wrong.
Suddenly, he knelt beside her seat. Then cupped her head with his broad hands—and kissed her.
Celene’s hands never left the controls, but she doubted she could move even if she wanted to. Warmth pulsed through her body as his mouth found hers. His lips were warm, firm, surprisingly confident. He took small sips of her, then lightly ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. She found herself opening to him without thought, as if it was the most natural thing in the universe to have Lieutenant Nils Calder kiss her.
When she parted her lips to let him in, a dark, primitive sound rumbled up from within him, and the kiss deepened. His fingers tightened in her hair as his tongue delved into her, stroking her, learning her feel and taste. And she learned his. He had a rich, spiced flavor, more potent than Girlal brandy. The more she tasted him, the more she craved.
His kiss was made of promises. Promises of pleasure, of unrestrained passion. What his mouth would feel like not just on her lips, but on her body, exploring her, savoring her. His engineer’s focus and thoroughness directed solely toward her.
This was a kiss a man gave a woman, not a legend.
And it shook her. It left her nowhere to hide, nothing with which to protect herself.
She pulled back, breaking the kiss. His eyes opened, and his breathing came in rough swells as he gazed at her.
There was something startlingly familiar about his kiss.
A memory sparked through her. Quick and sharp.
“The Night of Masks,” she said, her voice breathless.
He said nothing, only continued to stare at her, his eyes hot and his cheeks dark and flushed.
Finally liberated, the memory came back to her in a rush. It had been five solar months ago. Celebrating holidays was always important at the 8th Wing home base, even holidays that had no true spiritual foundation, like the Night of Masks. That holiday was, in truth, more an excuse to be wild and uninhibited, identities protected by the traditional masks worn by celebrants. Fighting between PRAXIS and the 8th Wing had been particularly bad in the past year, so Command had gone all out and had real naamari cakes baked for the troops. And offered a plentiful supply of Lulani rum. Alcohol and masks made for a potent combination.
Celene loved the Night of Masks. It was one of the few times she could shed her Stainless Jur identity and simply enjoy herself like any person. Like any woman.
She remembered now that she’d been dancing with several men. The men could’ve been her squad mates or part of the regular personnel or medical staff. It hadn’t mattered. She’d lost herself to the music, allowing herself to feel and be free. One of the men dancing with her had been gently tugging on her hand, trying to get her to go with him to a shadowed corner, but she’d been resisting, enjoying the freedom of the dance far more than she knew she would enjoy a fast, frenzied coupling. Everyone in the 8th Wing had the Xalina vaccine and the Tawaret chip, so she knew she’d be protected from any disease or pregnancy—but it felt far better to dance with abandon than have anonymous sex.
She had been just about to tell her insistent partner that he ought to find someone else for his night’s fun when a pair of strong hands had settled on her shoulders and turned her around. Even though she’d had more than a few mugs of rum, she had known she could take down anyone who tried to force himself on her. But she hadn’t wanted to use her hand-to-hand combat skills that night. She had just wanted freedom. Stainless Jur might toss an unwanted suitor to the ground, but on the Night of Masks, she could have been anyone, even a woman who let strangers touch her.
Facing the man who’d turned her around, she had gotten a quick impression of height and wide shoulders. The stranger’s mask had covered his upper face, but she had seen his mouth and its intriguing full bottom lip. He had stared at her for a moment, and she had smirked up at him, wondering just how far she’d let him take this before she decided to dislocate his thumbs. He had seemed to be steadying himself, as if he had been on the verge of jumping into a fission tank.
And then he’d lowered his head, bringing his mouth to hers. The stranger had kissed her.
If he’d been rough or too aggressive, she would have pushed him away. Shoved her elbow into his throat. Enjoying her freedom did not mean putting up with some nebula toad’s tongue and grabbing hands.
But the stranger had kissed her with…tenderness. As if she was precious to him. Yet he hadn’t been too weak, either. Just the right amount of strength, a balance between his desire and her power. In his kiss, she had felt she wasn’t Stainless Jur, and she wasn’t an anonymous woman perfect for a Night of Masks tryst. She was her, and he wanted her.
Desire had hit her, fast and hot. Whoever the stranger had been, she needed to know what it would be like to be his lover, even for a single night.
She’d reached up to thread her fingers through his hair, pull him closer, but as soon as she did, he’d ended the kiss.
He had stared at her, his eyes unreadable behind his mask. She hadn’t been able to even see their color. She had opened her mouth to speak. And then, the crowd around them had shifted. He’d vanished into it, as abruptly as waking from a dream. She had searched for him the rest of the night, but wherever her stranger had gone, he’d hidden himself well in the throng of masked celebrants.