The whatever-it-was didn’t stand a chance.
Lor took it down in seconds, all lethal grace and furious protectiveness. He moved faster than my eyes could track, a golden blur of claws and precision. The drone sparked and screeched as he tore through its outer casing, disabled its weapons, and finally crushed its central processor in one powerful grip.
When it was done—the drone a smoking heap of twisted metal and broken circuits—I stood shaking, adrenaline punching through my system like a shot of pure espresso. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise.
Lor turned to me, his amber eyes blazing with a mix of fury and concern. His chest heaved with exertion, his claws still extended and dripping with some kind of fluid from the drone’s internal systems.
Phil unwrapped from my shoulders and extended a tendril toward Lor, the two of them communicating in that silent way that still mystified me.
“Snitch,” I muttered to Phil, though there was no real heat in it. The vine had probably saved my life by alerting Lor to my predicament.
Lor didn’t say anything for a long beat. Just looked at me with those fierce, glowing eyes. His tail lashed behind him, betraying his agitation more clearly than words ever could. Then he turned and stalked back toward camp, clearly expecting me to follow.
I did, chastened and embarrassed, but also inexplicably, inappropriately aware of how the muscles in his back flexed with each movement, how smoothly he navigated the dense foliage, how completely and utterly he had destroyed a threat to keep me safe.
Not gonna lie...a little turned on.
Okay, a lot turned on.
I followed him back to safety, already formulating my defense and wondering if there was any way to spin this that didn’t end with me looking like a complete idiot. Something told me I wasn’t going to win this argument, but then again—based on the way my pulse quickened every time he glanced back to make sure I was still following—maybe losing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Later,after I’d used jungle soap-foam from a plant Lor handed me (yes, really), and strung together a surprisingly comfy new leaf-wrap that didn’t look half bad, I found myself sitting on a moss-cushioned log while Lor cooked. Not heated uprations or assembled alien fruit platters. Actually cooked. With fire and everything. The domesticity of it struck me as absurdly charming—this lethal warrior-cat who’d dismantled a killer drone with his bare hands was now carefully turning skewers of meat over glowing embers, his expression as concentrated as if he were defusing a bomb.
“What exactly am I about to eat?” I asked, eyeing the sizzling chunks of something that smelled disturbingly delicious.
Lor glanced up, those amber eyes reflecting the firelight. “Protein.”
“Wow, so specific. Really narrows it down.”
The corner of his mouth twitched—which, for Lor, was practically rolling on the floor laughing. “You would not recognize the species name.”
“Try me. I’m a journalist specializing in the weird and unexplained.”
He considered this, then said something that sounded like gargled marbles with extra consonants.
“Okay, fine, you win,” I conceded. “I’m going to call it jungle chicken and we’re never discussing it again.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied with this compromise, and returned to his cooking. The fire cast dancing shadows across his bronze skin, highlighting the black rosette markings that ran across his shoulders and down his back. His tail moved in lazy sweeps behind him, relaxed in a way I rarely saw.
The scent made my stomach growl loud enough for him to glance over with a smirk.
“You laugh like I haven’t almost died twice today,” I grumbled, accepting the skewer he handed me. “Okay, three times if we count whatever this mystery meat is.”
I bit into it cautiously, then moaned embarrassingly loud as flavors exploded across my taste buds—smoky, rich, with a hintof something like herbs and spices I couldn’t identify. It was ridiculously good.
“Holy crap,” I mumbled around a mouthful. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Survival training,” he replied, settling across from me with his own portion. “Legion Reapers operate alone for extended periods. Food preparation is essential skill.”
“So you’re telling me all the space marines are secretly gourmet chefs? That’s...unexpectedly adorable.”
He tilted his head. “Not adorable. Practical.”
“Practically adorable,” I countered, taking another bite. The meat was perfectly tender, seasoned with what looked like crushed purple leaves and tiny orange berries. “Seriously, this is amazing.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the jungle’s night sounds creating a surprisingly peaceful backdrop. Bioluminescent fungi glowed in soft blues and greens around our shelter, while strange firefly-like creatures drifted lazily through the air. Phil and his vine friends had woven themselves into a gentle canopy above us, occasionally dipping down to offer fruit or adjust the fire’s intensity.
After dinner, I decided to entertain him with stories from home. Partly because the silence was getting too comfortable, too intimate, and partly because I was genuinely curious about what he might know.
