"Are there any questions regarding procedures?" Captain Thane asked.
"None from the scholarly delegation," Myris replied.
"None from the militant delegation," Thane echoed.
The formal introduction concluded with ritual blessings and diplomatic pleasantries, but I movedthrough it all in a haze. When the scholarly delegation departed, Kaelen's eyes found mine one last time across the pavilion. The look he gave me was unreadable—curiosity, perhaps, or assessment. Something that made my chest tight with an unnamed feeling.
I watched him leave, admiring the confident set of his shoulders, the way other scholars deferred to his presence despite his youth. In seven days, that composure would be mine to explore, those storm-grey eyes mine to watch as I learned what made him surrender.
The thought sent fire racing through my veins, followed immediately by bone-deep terror.
What if I wasn't what he needed? What if all his theoretical knowledge revealed how poorly suited I was for the role I was meant to play?
Seven days. Seven days of wondering what he was thinking, what he expected, what he'd discovered about me from that brief introduction. Seven days of knowing that a stranger held the key to everything I was supposed to become—and having no way to know if I would measure up.
As I walked back through the soldiers’ quarters, past training yards where other warriors moved through familiar patterns with easy confidence, the weight of isolation pressed down on me like armor that no longer fit. Preparation periods were meant to be solitary, contemplative. Time to center oneself, to prepare for the sacred bond ahead.
Instead, all I could think about was storm-grey eyes and the way Kaelen had rescued me from my stumbling words without making it feel like weakness.
Seven nights to wonder what he was thinking.
Seven days to discover whether I was the man I'd always pretended to be, or something else entirely.
The militant quarters felt emptier than usual as I made my way toward my chambers, as if the very walls knew I was counting down to something that might unmake everything I thought I understood about myself.
And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thought of all.
Chapter
Four
KAELEN
The moonstone in my wall had dimmed to its softest glow, casting silver shadows across the narrow confines of my quarters. I lay naked beneath a single sheet, the fabric clinging to skin that burned with restless heat despite the cool night air. Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
Lieutenant Rion of Korrath.
The memory played behind my eyelids like a scroll I couldn't stop unrolling. The way he'd stood in the ceremonial pavilion that afternoon—tall, broad-shouldered, every inch the perfect militant specimen. Silk robes that did nothing to hide the power beneath them. Sun-bronzed skin marked by the kind of scars that spoke of real combat, real danger. And those eyes...
I shifted restlessly, the sheet tangling around my legs. This was ridiculous. I was a scholar, supposedlydedicated to intellectual pursuit. I should be analyzing the afternoon's meeting with academic detachment, considering the diplomatic implications of cross-Order bonding, perhaps reviewing relevant texts about partnership dynamics.
Instead, all I could think about was the way Rion's voice had roughened when he'd stumbled over his greeting. The flush that had climbed his throat when I'd rescued him from embarrassment. The grateful look he'd given me—not grateful like a peer appreciating assistance, but grateful like someone who recognized authority when they encountered it.
Heat pooled low in my belly at the memory.
I kicked off the sheet entirely and lay bare to the moonlight, skin prickling with sensitivity. My academic mind tried to assert itself, categorizing what I'd observed. Rion was clearly nervous about the bonding—understandable for someone facing a cross-Order partnership. His stumble during introductions suggested he wasn't naturally confident in social situations, despite his military bearing. The way he'd deferred to Captain Thane indicated respect for hierarchy, comfort with clear command structures...
But even as I catalogued these observations, my imagination was already running wild, taking the afternoon's brief encounter and spinning it into something far more intimate.
I could see him in my mind's eye, standing in this very room. Still wearing those ceremonial robes, but looser now, the silk sliding off one shoulder to reveal the bronzed muscle beneath. Would he undresshimself, or would he wait for permission? The militant Orders prized discipline, obedience to authority. Surely someone trained for military service would understand how to follow orders...
My hand drifted down my chest almost without conscious thought, fingers tracing the path I imagined his gaze might take. In my fantasy, Rion's eyes were fixed on me with the same intensity he'd probably brought to battlefield reconnaissance—focused, alert, hungry for guidance.
"Tell me what you need," I whispered to the empty room, surprised by how easily the command fell from my lips.
In my imagination, he stepped closer. The ceremonial robes fell away entirely, revealing a body sculpted by years of training. Broad chest tapering to a narrow waist. Thighs corded with muscle from long campaigns. And between them...
I groaned softly, my cock hardening against my palm. This was dangerous territory. I was supposed to be preparing for an academic partnership, not indulging in fantasies about my future bondmate's body. But the images kept coming, each more vivid than the last.
