Dragon Fleet

I let out a jaw-cracking yawn as I watched Stoneclaw and the others stuff their lift harnesses into one of the small cargo containers strapped to the FRS trailer—the one Mac treated like her personal shrine to spare parts and caffeine abuse. A pop echoed through my skull like a gunshot. I winced, shook my head, and immediately felt several sets of eyes boring into me.

They were all staring—every damn one of them who had gone on that not-so-authorized mission.

"What?" I grumbled, shifting my weight and glaring back.

"Was that your jaw?" Mac asked, her voice a perfect mix of concern and attitude—standard issue for our fleet's fiery, foul-mouthed mechanic and phoenix.

"Uh… yeah." I adjusted the flight jacket Stoneclaw had lent me. It was at least two sizes too big and not nearly warm enough for the icebox that was Iowa's winter wonderland. My muscles were still staging a full-scale rebellion from the flight. Every joint felt like it wanted to secede from my body and go sunbathe in Arizona.

"Geez, babe. If I'd known the cold was gonna jack you up this bad, I would've flown back on Stoneclaw with you," Mac said, her usual edge softened.

"Don't the two of you already ride Stoneclaw together as it is?" Icetail chimed in, his grin so smug it could melt permafrost.

I shot him a look that said try me, and the dragons around us immediately broke into knowing snickers. Before I could decide whether biting his face off would be worth the paperwork, Ironfist limped up behind him and delivered a satisfying smack to the back of Icetail's head.

"Just 'cause you ain't getting any tail doesn't mean you get to mouth off to our Primum Draco and his Dominia Draconem," he growled.

Mac blinked. "Excuse the hell outta me—what did you just call us?"

Ironfist turned to her with the calm patience of someone who knew he was about to stir the pot and didn't care. "Dominia Draconem. Mistress of the Dragons. Said it with complete reverence, ma'am."

Everyone groaned, several dragons rolled their eyes, and somewhere behind me, Crooked Fang muttered, "Ass-kisser…"

Ironfist spun on his heel and stared Crooked Fang down with enough heat to cook a steak.

Before fists or claws could fly, Stoneclaw finally spoke.

"That's enough," he rumbled, the gravel in his voice dropping a few decibels lower than usual. "To clarify, Lyra is my Lunavira. Mac is my Ignivara. From this day forward, those are their Thunder titles."

He said it like he was sealing an oath in blood, daring anyone to challenge him. I sure as hell wasn't going to. I was too damn tired. Besides… hearing him say it like that sent an unexpected chill down my spine. He'd called me Lunavira once before—quietly, intimately, the night the three of us—

"Aw, look at that! You made Lyra blush! Someone grab a camera!" one of the dragons called out, laughing.

I growled low, arms crossing in front of me like a barricade.

Screw this. I was too wolfen tired to deal with their commentary. If I didn't walk away now, I might just snap and rip someone's throat out… or worse—start crying from exhaustion. And that would be really embarrassing.

I climbed into the FRS and flopped down on one of Mac's workbenches, ignoring the scattered tools and half-dismantled drone parts. Outside, the dragons had devolved into a full-on verbal brawl over who had the most "impressive" bedroom stories. Apparently, a successful heist gave them all permission to unleash their inner frat boys. Not that I could blame them—we were still riding the high. If I had the energy, I'd be throwing shade right back.

But my brain was currently set to static and drool.

As I leaned back against the bench, something blinked at me from the ceiling. My gaze snapped upward—to a camera. Mounted. Active. Blinking green.

Right. At. Me.

I snapped my legs together so fast I nearly folded in half, then spun toward the open door where Mac stood doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

"Seriously!?" I barked, half-growl, half-mortified screech.

Mac wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes as she climbed into the FRS. She plopped down beside me like this was her own private comedy special, still snorting like a maniac. Then she handed me her phone.

On screen was the damning screenshot: me frozen in time, wide-eyed and horrified, hair a tangled silver disaster, looking like a tactical raccoon caught stealing from a vending machine.

"That was sooo perfect, Lyra," she beamed. "The second you saw that camera? Mwah." She kissed her fingertips like a smug little gremlin chef.

"Why the hell do you have a camera in the FRS?" I growled.

She tilted her head innocently. "Why do you think?"

I sighed. "Ironfist…"

"Ironfist," she nodded, like a doctor confirming a terminal diagnosis.

We both stared at the phone, the stupid image still on screen, when my own pocket buzzed. Groaning, I fished my phone out and checked the screen—Star Zaraki.

Great.

I answered, trying to sound like I wasn't running on four hours of sleep, thirty-six hours of adrenaline, and zero patience.

"Hey Star, what's up?"

"Hey Lyra. I need to talk to you about something."

My stomach did a nosedive. Oh no. She knew. She knew. Somehow, she'd figured out we'd stolen Aura's bus and Mustang. I bit my lip and braced for the fallout.

"Okay…" I replied, trying not to sound like I was awaiting execution.

"So, Cayro and I discussed this, and we've decided this will be your formal reprimand for torching those box trailers on the Crescent Moon's landing pad."

Oh. That.

Before I could reply, I heard Cayro in the background.

"Wait a damn minute—we didn't fully discuss this. I'm still undecided on how I—"

Then came Star's very distinct growl, followed by the unmistakable alpha voice.

"We did discuss it. And this is the decision."

Cayro's tone spiked. "Excuse me, I am the godsdamn Gen—"

"Cayro," I cut in, growling, "I told you if you tried to make me and Dragon Fleet drag those damn trailers back to Iowa, we'd torch them. You didn't listen."

Star cut in like a blade. "Oh for fuck's sake—Cayro, go pull that stick out of your ass and stop acting like your father."

I blinked.

Oh shit. She went there.

The grunt I heard in the background confirmed the hit. Right in the pride.

Star's voice returned, now full-on Luna Mode. "Lyra, due to the… extenuating circumstances surrounding the trailers—and the fact that you did warn us—we're declaring this an official act of disobedience and disrespect to the Zaraki Pack."

There was weight behind her voice now. Alpha weight. Luna authority. The kind of tone that carried more than just words—it carried command.

"Do not… and I mean do not, cause any more damage to the Crescent Moon's landing pad," she ordered.

The force of it hit me like cold water. My inner wolf bristled, instinctively recognizing the boundary. From now on, if I laid a claw on that pad, I'd be defying her. And Cayro. And the pack.

"Yes, Luna," I said quietly, tone flattening into something just above submissive. "I understand. I will not damage the Crescent Moon's landing pad again."

"Thank you," she replied, soft but absolute.

I sat there for a moment, letting the weight of Star's command sink in.

Neither she nor Cayro ever pulled rank unless it mattered. Cayro had only done it once before—right after they rescued me from my father. That time, he made it very clear I wasn't allowed to drive Aura's Mustang ever again.

He never said I couldn't touch it, though.

So technically… we hadn't broken his order when we boosted the damn thing. I chuckled to myself.

The funny thing about alpha commands? If they're not airtight, there's always a loophole. My father taught me that the hard way. He used to bend his alpha power like a cage—one vague command at a time. I learned to slip through the bars without tripping alarms.

"By the way, Lyra," Star's voice cut through my thoughts like a knife. "Did you hear what happened to Aura's bus and Mustang?"

I stiffened, the mental image of a brick slamming into my gut forming almost instantly.

"N-no…" I croaked out, playing the fool.

"It's kinda funny, actually. Someone stole both of them and just dropped them off at SkyTeam's Transportation Division HQ."

"Oh?" I replied, tone dripping with mock innocence.

"You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?" she asked, using that voice—the sweet one she used right before she verbally eviscerated you.

"Nope," I lied smoothly. "Cayro gave me explicit orders not to drive Aura's Mustang ever again. Ergo… wasn't me."

There was a pause, then a quiet "Hmm…" from her side of the line.

Cayro chimed in. "I did give that order," he confirmed like he was trying to save face—or cling to plausible deniability.

"It's just weird, is all…" Star started, but Cayro interrupted again.

"What about having Lyra and one of her drivers bring the vehicles back?"

I hung up.

Call ended.

Two seconds later, my phone buzzed again—Star.

I answered.

"Did you just hang up on me?" she snapped.

"Did it sound like this?" Click.

Another text arrived within seconds:

Seriously, Lyra? That was rude…

I tapped out my reply with a smirk:

I'm on leave. I'm not hauling that damned Mustang or the bus back to Tennessee. Ask Uncle.

A pause.

Then:

Fair point. Also, Aura doesn't want you anywhere near her car or bus. She thinks you'll do something nefarious to them.

I snorted and turned the screen toward Mac, who had been doing her damnedest not to laugh this entire time.

She laughed so hard she nearly fell off the workbench, one hand clutching her side, the other smacking the metal like it owed her money.

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I rolled my eyes, slipped off the bench, and stepped outside the FRS. The moment my boots hit the ground, I found myself surrounded—every dragon in our Thunder standing there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised like I was a kid caught sneaking cookies.

"What?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Stoneclaw was the first to speak. "First rule of spec ops…"

The rest shouted in unison, "Don't get caught!"

Crossing my arms, I stared them down. "We didn't get caught…"

Stoneclaw squinted at me like he was analyzing a mission log for hidden BS.

That's when Mac stepped out behind me, heat rolling off her like she was about to spontaneously combust. She stepped up beside me and glared at the dragons like they'd insulted her engine block.

"Seriously?" she huffed. "Lyra played it off smooth as hell. It was fucking glorious."

Stoneclaw cocked his head. "How so?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said sarcastically. "Maybe the fact that the General gave her an order years ago, and she still found the loophole? Or that Colonel Zaraki told General Zaraki to yank the stick out of his ass? Or maybe—just maybe—because our Alpha has the stones to hang up on two of the most powerful military leaders in the country like she's declining a spam call?"

Raptor's mouth fell open.

A couple dragons suddenly found the sky very interesting and rubbed the backs of their necks like they were considering how bad their own records looked.

Stoneclaw looked at me with a mix of disbelief and admiration. "Did you seriously hang up on the General?"

"Technically…" I said with a smirk, "no. I hung up on a colonel. The General just happened to be in the background—picking up what was left of his dignity."

I watched as Stoneclaw tried to mentally compute just how brazen I really was. His expression twisted into something sour before he let out a huff like a disappointed dad.

"Aww… Lizard Boy's upset Lyra's got bigger balls than he does," Mac snarked, turning back toward the FRS like she hadn't just thrown a grenade into the group chat.

A low "burn…" echoed from several dragons, followed by chuckles.

And then Stoneclaw—poor, sweet, dumbass Stoneclaw—opened his mouth and sealed his fate.

"And how would you know?"

The silence hit harder than a sonic boom.

Several dragons choked on their own saliva. One audibly wheezed. I swear I saw Crooked Fang mouth 'He's dead.'

Mac spun like a loaded turret, marched up to Stoneclaw, and in one fluid motion that would make any Marine proud, grabbed him by the jewels.

Stoneclaw folded forward with a strangled gasp. His eyes bulged. His soul tried to escape through his nostrils.

Mac leaned in, voice calm and low like she was explaining how to disarm a bomb—or create one.

"From what I can tell… they're not as big as you thought, Lizard Boy. Don't ever doubt our mate again."

The tiny squeak Stoneclaw emitted was enough to make two dragons visibly wince. "Yes ma'am."

She patted his cheek. "Good boy." Then kissed him on the lips, released her death grip, and stepped back.

Stoneclaw straightened like a man who had just seen God… and God was wearing boots.

He spun on his heel and marched off like he had a sudden, urgent appointment with his therapist.

"Anyone else want to question my mate?" Mac called out, flames practically radiating from her skin. "Anyone want to imply she can't hold her own?"

Every dragon scattered like they'd just been told the ground was lava. You'd think someone had called for a formation drill in a volcano.

I stood there a moment longer, watching Mac dig through her tool drawers like they owed her back pay. She was muttering about "disrespectful lizards" and "clawless scales-for-brains."

Yeah. Best to give her space. If I knew one thing, a pissed off phoenix was the last thing you would ever want to deal with. Salt Lake City was a prime example.

I made my way over to the MCV and found the door slightly ajar. That gave me pause.

Unlocked?

Either Stoneclaw had done it earlier when we first got back… or Steve and Catalina forgot. And considering the level of post-Knoxville exhaustion those two were rocking, I wouldn't put it past them.

Still… instincts kicked in.

I stepped back and leaned out to scan the lot. No sign of Steve's truck or Catalina's little electric menace. That tilted the odds toward Stoneclaw.

With a sigh, I climbed the steps and pushed the door open.

The scent hit me instantly—eggs, bacon, and fresh-baked bread. My stomach growled like a starving wolf.

Steve sat at his workstation, typing away, only glancing up to give me a casual, "Hey, Alpha."

"Uh… hi?" I blinked. What the hell?

Then came the sound of pans clattering.

I turned toward the front of the MCV just as Catalina walked out carrying a plate of food.

And I froze.

Not because of the plate. Not because of the smell.

Because of what she was wearing.

Correction: barely wearing.

Black lace. That was it. A sheer bra that did nothing to hide anything, and matching panties that had the structural integrity of dental floss. She looked like a walking lingerie ad—one of those 3 a.m. premium channel commercials your parents thought you didn't know about.

And she strutted. Like this was war paint.

Four-foot-eight of dangerous curves, platinum blonde pixie cut, an hourglass figure that should've come with a "handle with caution" label, and enough swagger to make deities doubt their own divinity.

She shot me a look—that look—the one that said I know exactly what you're thinking, dropped the plate in front of Steve like she was delivering a royal decree, then spun on her heel and walked off.

Her hips swayed like she was trying to start diplomatic conflict with gravity.

I stood there, stunned. Not because I was attracted. But because there was no damn warning label for this kind of energy.

And Steve?
Locked on target. Eyes glued to Catalina's ass like it was a moving red dot in a combat sim. The man had the focus of a sniper and the expression of someone whose internal monologue was just a long string of "holy shit."

I stood there—brain buffering, jaw loose, soul temporarily yeeted into the astral plane.

I've watched dragons turn into lightning mid-air. I've seen Cayro dismember enemies with nothing but a snarl and a pulse of will. Hell, I've fought vampires high on bloodlust and moonlight.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—could've prepared me for Pixie Lust Demon Barbie cooking bacon in the godsdamn MCV.

And their scent?

Everywhere.

Even my and Mac's shared workstation reeked of recent activity. I had the wherewithal not to ask. Some truths are best left buried… or bleached.

Eventually, I dragged myself over and dropped into my seat. I spun toward Steve, folding my arms.

"So… making good use of your leave, I see," I said, tone drier than Martian sand.

Steve gave a lazy spin in his chair, still clutching his plate, and met my stare with that maddeningly calm Beta look. "To the best of my abilities, Lyra," he replied, then casually crunched down on a piece of bacon like he hadn't just been visually undressing his mate moments ago.

I couldn't help but notice he was looking… leaner lately. Slimmer, more defined. Dude had definitely been hitting the cardio—or rather, Catalina had been hitting him with cardio.

"Why are you guys here at the MCV and not at your house?" I asked, one brow cocked.

He shrugged and jammed another strip of bacon in his mouth. At least he had the decency to swallow before answering.

"Privacy, mostly. Between you, Mac, and Stoneclaw ghosting last night, the rest of the crew got nosy. So, we migrated here."

"Ah." I nodded, though I wasn't sure why I was pretending to care about their location. It wasn't like Catalina's black lace invasion was going to fade from memory anytime soon.

Steve tilted his head, shoveling eggs onto his fork. "Speaking of which… where did the three of you vanish off to last night?"

I smiled. Wolfish. Innocent. Dead giveaway.

"We went on a date," I said far too quickly.

"With the entire thunder?" His eyebrows practically arched off his face.

"Yup. Group date. They were bored. Midnight flight. You know, too blow of some steam." It wasn't a lie if it was technically true. Mostly true.

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Did this group date happen to involve a certain oversized bus and a black Mustang?"

"What? Nooo. That's oddly specific." I kept my face stone still. He wasn't getting shit from me. I'd survived Mr. Bracton's interrogation a few years ago. Steve was a puppy in comparison.

He smirked. "Funny thing. A certain Thanksgiving bus and a certain Mustang just happened to show up at SkyTeam's Transportation Division last night. Rumor says they belonged to Lady Lyconotu."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said flatly, then immediately changed the subject. "Why are you working? You're supposed to be on leave."

Steve paused. Stared. That stare. The one that said, Are you actually asking me that?

"What?" I blinked. "Why are you giving me that look?"

He set his fork down, slowly, and fixed me with the full weight of his Beta-disapproval. "Seriously, Lyra? We're never on leave. You and I run a pack. You lead. I deal with the bullshit. That job never stops. Especially for me."

I winced. "I… uh… right."

"Yeah. Alpha." He made sure to enunciate the title like it came with a time clock and a death wish. "You think all the paperwork I and Catalina drown you in is bad? Please. We deal with the actual operations. You would fall apart without us."

"Geeze, okay. Sorry. Didn't mean to hit a nerve." I held up both hands in surrender.

He waved me off, spinning back to his monitors. "That's the job of a Beta. We handle the boring, relentless crap so the Alpha doesn't crash and burn."

"Well… technically, I may may be the Beta in Zaraki Pack, but I was more like Star and Cayro's companion. Less of their admin worker."

"Mmm-hmm," he grunted, not buying it. "But you are an Acosta. Surely your father taught you the structure and responsibilities of pack hierarchy?"

The temperature dropped.

I went still.

When I didn't answer, Steve slowly turned. Found me glaring at him like he'd just opened a door to a locked, trauma-filled basement.

"Uh… what'd I say?" he asked, suddenly cautious.

I let out a low growl. "My father and that pack treated me like I was a godsdamn waste of space, Steve. They made damn sure I stayed ignorant of what it meant to be an alpha. Everything I know comes from Cayro, Star, and Director Staroko…"

"Ah… right," Steve said, backpedaling slightly. "Good point. I should've remembered you didn't receive formal alpha training."

"Excuse me?" My eyes narrowed. "What do you mean I don't have formal training? My training's just not traditional. That doesn't mean it's invalid."

Steve flinched at my tone. Catalina chose that moment to glide back into the room, now wearing a satin robe and carrying two plates like it was a brunch scene in a soap opera. She handed me one, then perched on the edge of Steve's desk, legs crossed, nibbling on a sausage patty like it was gossip.

"I think what Steve meant," she said smoothly, "is that you weren't trained in the classic alpha-to-heir format. Most alphas are groomed by their predecessors—parents, mentors, old-world pack leaders. But Cayro and Star? Not exactly textbook. And Director Staroko? He's his own chapter in the godsdamn manual."

I exhaled hard through my nose. "Well… sorry. If I'd known, I would've made sure you two actually got the downtime you deserve."

Steve spun in his chair to face me fully. "That's not the point, Lyra."

"Then what is the point, Steve? Because it sounds like you're questioning my ability to lead the pack."

He paused. Measured his words. "We're not just a military unit. We're a pack. A family. That's bigger than just rank or mission status."

"I know what a pack is, Steve. I'm not dumb," I snapped, the exhaustion creeping into my voice.

He immediately facepalmed with a sigh. Catalina tried—and failed—to stifle a giggle. My jaw clenched. It felt like they were ganging up on me. I was beginning to wonder if this whole conversation was just a cleverly disguised intervention.

Seeing my frustration, Steve softened. "Lyra, I don't think you're dumb. Not for a second. What I'm trying to say is—pack leadership doesn't have an off switch. Not for you. Not for me. Not even when you're off galavanting with the dragons. Especially then."

He let the words land.

"You get the glory. I catch the falling debris. That's the job. Day or night. Rain or shine."

I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. Duh. Of course. I knew this. I'd just been so fried, my instincts weren't catching up with the facts. My brain was sludge. My bones were gravel.

"Oh look!" Catalina chirped. "The switch finally flipped, and she got it!" That grin of hers could punch through armor.

I shot her a glare. "Don't even start. You're walking around a military vehicle damn near naked. Need I quote the regs?"

"Pfft." She waved a hand. "This is Steve and I's home ninety percent of the time. You can't say shit. Especially since you and Mac have turned your truck into your personal den of iniquity. I saw that cab shaking in Knoxville, girl. Don't even try me."

"That's not the same!" I squeaked, blushing furiously. "The truck isn't a shared command space. The MCV is!"

Catalina raised an eyebrow and smirked. "It was private until you barged in. We were pretty damn sure no one was coming by today. So, I wore what I wanted. Or didn't, depending on your perspective."

She winked.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nope. Words not found.

And to top it all off—cherry firmly embedded in the sundae of humiliation—Catalina was officially a pack member. And our assigned unit pathfinder and administrative officer. That meant I couldn't even threaten to file a complaint or ask for reassignment.

Technically?

She was off duty.

And I'd just walked into her living room.

I grumbled and turned back toward my monitor, stuffing a biscuit in my mouth like it had personally offended me. I chewed in silence, only realizing I'd devoured everything when I looked down at an empty plate. Huh. Guess I was starving. No wonder I was feeling calmer now.

I shoved the plate aside and leaned back in my chair—right as a thunderous belch erupted from deep within my core and echoed through the MCV like a battle cry.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, face flaming in mortified silence.

Catalina blinked at me, wide-eyed, like I'd just thrown a grenade into a bridal shower. Across from me, Steve choked mid-bite, doing everything he could not to laugh.

"I'm sorry!" I squeaked.

"Did you even taste your food?" Catalina asked, dead serious.

"Yeah! It was delicious. Why?"

"Because you inhaled it like a starving war orphan," she shot back.

"I didn't eat that fast…"

"And I'm a nun," she deadpanned.

I blinked. "You're… not."

"Exactly. And you finished before Steve. That's saying something."

I glanced at Steve, who still had a third of his food left. "I… uh…"

"When was the last time you ate, Lyra?" Steve asked, leveling me with his Big Beta Energy.

"Last night," I mumbled, recalling the culinary nightmare that was Mac and Stoneclaw's attempt at dinner.

"And how much did you eat?" he pushed.

"A bite…"

"A bite?" Catalina gasped.

"Yes! A bite! It was a disaster!" I whined. "Stoneclaw dragged back one of those mutant turkeys from the clusterfuck, and Mac made some… birdseed stuffing, and the mashed potatoes and broccoli was just over-salted sadness. It was awful!"

"Yeah, we saw the aftermath on your kitchen table," Steve muttered.

"What the hell was that gelatinous thing in the ring mold?" Catalina asked, making a face.

"I dunno. Stoneclaw cooked it."

"It smelled like canned dog food."

"It's called aspic," Steve explained, shuddering. "Meat jelly. Popular in the '50s. In my cookbook, it's listed under curses."

I groaned and dropped my head into my hands. "What am I going to do? I'm hopeless in the kitchen. And you saw what the other two conjured!"

"Honestly?" Steve said between bites. "I'm surprised the kitchen's still standing. Even Gordon Ramsay would look at that crime scene and declare a total loss."

"I need help," I admitted. "One of us has to know how to cook something or we're gonna end up feral."

They shared a look.

A grin.

Oh no.

"Catalina and I will teach you," Steve said sweetly. Too sweetly.

"Really?" I perked up, tail wagging internally like an excited puppy.

"But…" he added, and I froze. Ah. There it was.

"Shit."

"You have to honor the promise you made when I became your Beta," he said, eyes gleaming.

I blinked, mentally scrolling through the haze of that day—the chaos, the exhaustion, the declarations after the meeting with my uncle and Lord Lyconotu…

"Wait… what promise?"

"Uh uh," he said, smug. "You're not weaseling out of this. You promised that if you were made a council member—"

"Nooo!" I cried, clutching my hair like I could save it.

"Yes," he replied, positively glowing.

"But Steve! I was tired! I was sleep-deprived! I didn't mean it!"

"An Alpha is only as good as her word."

"Butbutbut—!"

Catalina finally chimed in, rubbing her temple. "Technically… she's not a council member for Lord Lyconotu, she's the council leader for Star and Cayro. Sooo… maybe there's room for compromise?"

"You told her?" I gasped.

"Of course. She's my mate. I tell her everything," Steve replied without shame.

"I'll get the gear," Catalina said, hopping off the desk and heading toward the bunk room.

"Now?" I asked, defeated.

"Yup. Now," Steve confirmed.

I huffed, burying my face in my hands as a single tear of pure dread slid down my cheek as I held my hair.

Today was going to be a very long day.