Devlin sees something he shouldn't

Devlin lingered outside Sarah’s door for a moment longer, listening for the sound of the lock clicking into place. Satisfied, he exhaled and turned away, boots echoing softly down the corridor as he headed toward the ship's modest security station.

The security room was tucked between two storage compartments, a cramped little space filled with outdated consoles and flickering monitors. He keyed in his access code, the door sliding open with a **** hiss. Inside, the stale air smelled faintly of burnt plastic and old sweat.

He sank into the battered chair before the primary terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard. One by one, the ship’s internal feeds crackled to life, a fractured mosaic of half-functional cameras. Most showed nothing but dark hallways and deserted compartments. A few feeds sputtered into static.

Devlin clicked through them absently at first—habit, more than anything. The bridge: empty. Cryobay: silent. Engineering: still flashing warning lights and half-collapsed ductwork.

One screen caught his eye—camera 07-Galley Access.

There, through the grainy feed, he saw Wren—her dark hair mussed, her jumpsuit unzipped to the waist and hanging loose around her hips, the sleeves tied lazily around her waist. Her tank top was tight, damp with sweat, clinging to the curve of her breasts.

Torres was there too, slouched against the counter, laughing at something she said. His hand slid along her hip, and she didn’t flinch away. Instead, she pressed into him, her mouth finding his with a hungry, unrestrained need.

Devlin’s breath caught.

For a moment he told himself he should look away—that this was a violation, that he wasn’t that kind of man—but he didn’t. He leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath him, eyes locked on the unfolding scene.

Wren shoved Torres back against the wall, aggressive and laughing under her breath, her body moving with the reckless urgency of someone starved for warmth and touch. Torres caught her by the hips, grinding against her, their bodies colliding with **** friction.

She yanked her tank top off, baring flushed skin slick with sweat. Her breasts bounced free, nipples stiffened against the chill of the ship’s recycled air. Devlin’s mouth went dry.

Torres, rough and eager, bent to suckle one of them, hands roaming down to tear at the knot around her waist, dragging the jumpsuit lower until it pooled at her ankles. Beneath it, she wore nothing—her thighs strong and pale, slick where they rubbed together.

Devlin shifted in his seat, his own arousal pressing painfully against the confines of his uniform.

On the feed, Torres turned her, pushing her chest-first against the counter. Wren braced herself with a throaty gasp, legs spreading eagerly. Torres fumbled open his fly, his cock springing free, thick and already dripping.

Without ceremony, he pressed into her, hips slamming forward with a **** that rocked her up onto her toes. Wren moaned—low, guttural, the sound vibrating through the console speakers like a living thing.

Devlin gripped the arms of his chair, transfixed. His imagination filled in the details the grainy camera couldn’t capture—the way Wren’s face must be twisted in pleasure, the slap of skin against skin, the sharp scent of sex flooding the galley.

Torres fucked her hard, relentless, hands gripping her hips so tightly Devlin could almost see the bruises forming. Wren met him thrust for thrust, panting, cursing under her breath between gasps.

Their bodies moved with a raw, **** rhythm, two creatures burning away fear and exhaustion the only way they could. There was no tenderness in it, only need—a brutal, necessary claiming.

Wren cried out as she came, her body shaking violently against the counter. Torres wasn’t far behind, slamming into her once, twice more before he spilled himself inside her with a groan that echoed faintly through the security room.

Devlin sat back, breathing hard, pulse hammering in his ears.

On the screen, Wren slumped forward, laughing breathlessly, and Torres wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his forehead against her shoulder. For a moment, they just stood there, clinging to each other as the ship moaned and creaked around them.

Devlin wiped a hand across his mouth, forcing himself to look away at last.

The screen shifted to static as the feed sputtered out, mercifully cutting off the afterglow.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to banish the image now seared into his mind.

There were worse ways to cling to life out here in the dark.

But the unease that twisted in his gut reminded him—sex was one thing. Survival was another.

And survival was never simple.