Slipstream Heat

One minute I’m in Bay Six tightening a coolant line, the next I’m face-first against my own bulkhead, wrists clamped in magnetic cuffs.

The Interstellar Bond Registry doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

The Tarkuun who slapped them on doesn’t say a word—just glances over my shoulder like he’s checking the cargo manifest… or sizing up my scent.

The Concordance changed the galaxy. Alphas like him were born to take command.

Omegas like me were meant to obey. Only problem?

I’m very, very bad at that.