Chapter 6: Almost caught
The weeks bled together, a cycle of simulated daylight and stolen darkness. The silent rules held, but they began to bend, then warp under the pressure of their own absurdity. The clean hatred of the day started to develop hairline fractures.
It happened after a brutal, grinding mission clearing Galran mines from an asteroid belt. They were all bruised, exhausted, and caked in crystalline dust that glittered like shattered anger. In the crowded debrief, Lace had called Lotor’s mining-laser tactic “a blunt instrument approach.” He’d retorted that her evasive pattern was “festive, like confetti for our enemies.”
An hour later, still in her grimy flight suit, she’d been heading to the showers when an arm shot out from an auxiliary sensor-closet. Lotor’s hand clamped over her mouth, his body pulling her into the pitch-black, cramped space. The door sealed behind them.
“What the hell—” she hissed, the words muffled by his palm.
He didn’t answer with words. He spun her, pressed her front against the cold wall, his body a solid line of heat against her back. One hand slid from her mouth down to her throat, not squeezing, just holding. The other worked at the seals of her flight suit. It was pure, raw reaction. No pretense of maintenance, no strategic alibi. Just the unresolved clash from the debrief channeling itself into a different, violent kind of contest. He took her there, in the dark, against the humming sensor relays, both of them still smelling of ozone and sweat. It was over in minutes, a furious, silent release. He left first. She slid down the wall, her knees giving out, listening to her own heart hammer against her ribs. The day rule hadn’t just been broken; it had been atomized.
The balance of power, or whatever sick parody of it they had, shifted. She found an abandoned lookout platform on a derelict sector of the castle, a dome of clear, reinforced aluminite that offered a 360-degree view of the starfield. It was forgotten, off the main power grid, illuminated only by starlight.
She took him there. “Shut up and look,” she’d said, cutting off some sarcastic remark about rendezvous points.
He’d gone quiet. In the absolute silence, surrounded by the infinite, cold glitter, the usual frantic energy drained away. It was slower. Different. He laid her down on the cool, transparent floor, the stars beneath her back, and when he moved in her, it was with a focused, languid intensity that made her feel both tiny and monumental. She watched the slow arc of a nebula over his shoulder as she fell apart, the sound she made swallowed by the vast, soundless vacuum beyond the glass. He’d rested his forehead against hers afterwards, his breathing ragged, and for a fleeting moment, there was no hate in his eyes. Just a kind of stunned reverence. They didn’t speak of it.
They were never caught. Their act was flawless. In the mess hall, she’d “accidentally” bump his tray, sending goo floating to the floor. He’d critique her simulator scores with glacial, condescending precision in front of the entire team. The hostility was a living thing, nourished and believable.
Until the kitchen.
It was late. The castle hummed in sleep mode. She was perched on the central prep bench, still in her leggings and a loose tank top. He stood between her parted legs, his hands braced on the counter on either side of her hips. His mouth was on hers, hungry and deep, one of his hands sliding up under her top. The usual rules felt distant, blurred by the warm, dark quiet of the sleeping ship.
The kitchen door hissed open.
They broke apart like they’d been electrocuted. Lace nearly fell off the bench. Lotor took a swift, fluid step back, turning towards the hydration unit as if he’d been there the whole time.
Shiro blinked, his hair ruffled from sleep, wearing a simple black undershirt and pants. He looked from Lace, flushed and breathless on the counter, to Lotor, who was now calmly filling a glass with water.
“What’s going on?” Shiro asked, his voice rough with sleep. His eyes narrowed. “You two… don’t exactly get along. Everything okay?”
Lace’s mind was a white, screaming static. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Lotor took a slow sip of water. He didn’t look at Lace. He looked directly at Shiro, his expression one of mild, tired annoyance. “I was craving something,” he said, the words deliberate. “Sweet water.”
His gaze flickered to Lace for a millisecond, a hot, possessive slash, before returning to Shiro. “Lace came to get something to eat. To… fill her up.” He paused, letting the double meaning hang in the sterile air. “Food makes people have temporary alliances all the time. Even us.”
Shiro stared, his tired brain processing. He caught the surface joke—the rivalry, the truce over snacks. A faint, weary smile touched his lips. He was too exhausted, too focused on his own hunger, to dive deeper into the strange tension. “Yeah,” he grunted, running a hand over his face. “Tell me about it.” He moved past them to a refrigeration unit, pulling out a container of Hunk’s leftover protein pudding. He held it up. “You guys want some? It’s… green, but it’s good.”
Lace found her voice, high and strained. “Uh, sure. Thanks, Shiro.”
Lotor gave a curt nod. “Acceptable.”
Shiro grabbed three spoons and slid the container onto the counter. He took a seat on a stool. Lace hopped off the bench, her legs shaky, and sat opposite Shiro. Lotor sat beside her, a respectable foot of space between them on the bench.
They ate in silence broken only by the clink of spoons. Shiro talked about the strain on his prosthetic from the asteroid mining. Lace made vague, agreeing noises, her entire universe narrowed to the point of contact beneath the table.
Lotor had stretched his leg out. His booted foot was between her thighs, the hard toe of it pressing insistently, perfectly, against the seam of her leggings. He began to move it in a slow, relentless, circular motion.
Lace froze, a spoonful of green pudding halfway to her lips. The pressure was direct, maddening. A bolt of pure, illicit heat shot through her. She dared not move, dared not even look at him.
Shiro continued, scooping another bite. “...so Coran said he’d recalibrate the sensitivity matrix in the morning. Lace? You okay? You’re staring at that pudding like it’s gonna attack you.”
“Hmm? Yeah. Fine. Just tired,” she managed, forcing the spoon into her mouth. The sweet taste was absurd, incongruous with the secret violation happening below the table. With every slow, grinding circle, Lotor was rewriting the rules again, proving his control was absolute, that even in the midst of exposure, he owned a part of her.
She ate another bite, her jaw tight. Another grinding circle. A flush crept up her neck. She was torn between the need to shove his foot away and a terrifying, molten urge to press herself harder against it.
Lotor listened to Shiro, nodding thoughtfully, asking a quiet, intelligent question about the prosthetic’s power source. His face was a mask of polite, engaged interest. His foot worked her with the precision of a master, a silent, devastating counterpoint to his calm voice.
Lace finished her pudding, the last few bites a mechanical ordeal. Her body was taut as a wire, humming with a tension that threatened to shatter her. She didn’t know if it was fury or desire. It felt like both, fused into something unbearable.
When Shiro finally stood, taking the container to clean it, Lotor smoothly withdrew his foot. He stood as well. “Rest well, Shiro,” he said, his voice neutral.
“You too. And… try not to kill each other before breakfast,” Shiro said, a tired joke as he left.
The door hissed shut.
The kitchen was silent again, but the air was now charged with a dangerous new current. Lace didn’t look at him. She stared at the empty space where Shiro had been, feeling the ghost of that boot still between her legs, a brand.
Lotor didn’t touch her. He simply walked to the door. He paused, glancing back, his eyes gleaming in the low light.
“Temporary alliance,” he said, the words soft as a knife slipping between ribs. Then he was gone.
Lace sat alone in the bright, silent kitchen, the taste of sweet pudding and betrayal on her tongue, and for the first time, she felt truly, utterly caught.