Like she’s never heard that sound before.
Maybe she hasn’t.
Not from me.
Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my chest. She blinks hard and pulls away. Doesn’t say anything else. Just turns andwalks to the other end of the chamber and starts fiddling with a damaged comm panel like her life depends on it.
We don’t speak for hours after.
Just orbit each other. Moving in sync. Sharing breath and silence.
That night, she dozes off first.
I sit in the dark, back against the wall, eyes on the glow of the makeshift heat coil. The hum of machinery soothes the edge off my thoughts, but not enough. The bond is loud tonight. Too loud.
I dream about her.
Not naked. Not spread beneath me. Not begging.
Just her.
Laughing. Strong. Angry. Hands stained with grease. Fire in her eyes. Alive in a way I didn’t know I needed.
I wake up to the sound of her breathing.
She’s not asleep anymore.
She’s watching me.
Curled in a nest of wires and thermal wraps, arms around her knees. Her chin rests against them. Her eyes find mine through the dim, and something flickers there. Not softness. Not fear. Hunger.
Not just for food.
For something real.
Her lips part like she’s about to speak.
I catch her scent. She’s not hiding it. She doesn’t look away.
She holds my gaze.
The bond pulses.
I feel it in my teeth.
CHAPTER 15
ELLA
It starts with silence. Not the kind that echoes with doom or holds its breath waiting for disaster—but the kind that wraps you in velvet. The kind that feels safe. Sacred.
Takhiss hasn’t moved in ten minutes. He’s crouched near the heat coil, claws folded, head bowed like he’s praying. The quiet hum of the repurposed capacitor bathes the room in a golden pulse. The shadows he casts look like war-gods chiseled in bronze.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I pretend it’s from low blood sugar. Or stress. Or cold. But it’s not. It’shim. The way he hasn’t touched me. The way he’swaitingfor me to move. Like I’m not prey. Like I’m not even a prize. Like I’meverything.
I don’t think. I cross the coil space barefoot, each step quiet against the warped floor plating. He hears me—his head lifts slightly, but he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t assume.
That makes it worse. Or better. I don’t know.
