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He had to reach her.

He gritted his teeth and used every bit of training he’d ever had, adjusting his angle with short bursts from the suit’s air tank. He barely even thought about his adaptations but he’d been modified for deep space combat, so even if this tank was depleted, he’d still be good for an hour, carried through by the oxygen in his blood. The tank coughed unevenly—it wasn’t made for this—but pushed him forward.

B drifted, facing away from him, and he growled under his breath. He would not lose her. He could not lose her. Not after her sharp tongue and furious eyes. Not after she’d kissed him back like that.

Not when he’d just found her.

“I’ve got you, kelarris,” he murmured as his glove closed around the back of her suit.

Relief rolled through him as he pulled her in against him. Wrapping his larger body around hers, he used bursts from his tank to slow their spin, then grabbed his tether back to the ship.

Wrapping the line around his hand and wrist, he yanked. Nothing happened. The tether stretched, pulling tight between them and the ship, but they didn’t move any closer.

“Come on,” he growled, and yanked harder.

Slowly, they began to float back to the ship. But not fast enough.

Shifting his grip, he held B tight against his chest as he gave another burst from his tank. The thrust kicked them forward, enough that he had to tighten his arm around her when her body jolted.

“Easy,” he whispered, though she couldn’t hear him. “I’ve got you.”

He turned her in his arms as they drifted back toward the trader, bringing her visor close to his. Her dark hair had come loose and floated around her face in a tangled cloud, catching in front of her mouth and cheeks.

She looked peaceful. Too peaceful.

His heart lurched into his throat. He stopped breathing as he stared at her pale face, searching for any movement. But her eyes stayed shut, her lips not moving where they were parted slightly.

“Nononono,” he muttered, fumbling with his free hand for the controls on her forearm. The tiny display flickered beneath his glove, numbers swimming in front of his eyes until he forced himself to read them.

Oxygen level: fine.

Pressure: fine.

Suit integrity: green across the board.

Her heart rate pulsed steadily on the narrow monitor.

She was alive. Unconscious, but alive. And that was all that mattered.

He let out a breath that felt straight from his soul and pulled her closer, curling around her, putting himself between her and every jagged piece of debris still tumbling around the engine housing.

His gaze snagged on the ruin of the vent assembly and the jagged scar the explosion had left on the side of the ship.

He keyed the main comm.

“Stevie.”

Static hissed for half a second, then Stevie’s voice exploded in his helmet hard enough to make him flinch. “What the bloody hell is going on out there? B? Rann? Answer me!”

“It’s Rann,” he said, keeping his voice even. “B’s unconscious. She caught some of the blast, but her suit is intact. I have her.”

“What happened?”

“There was something attached to the starboard vent housing. I got a quick look before it exploded.” His jaw tightened as he glanced back again. There was barely anything left now. “Check my suit feed. See if you can identify it. And get your healer to the airlock. I’m bringing B in.”

There was a short silence.

“What kind of luxury ship do you think I’m running, handsome? You think we can afford cameras in the uni-suits?”