"The power flow needs to be synchronized," I explained, falling back into technical language because it was safer than acknowledging the tension. "You'll need a timing mechanism—probably mechanical rather than electrical, for reliability. Something that triggers each crystal in sequence, offset by—" I calculated "—point-zero-zero-seven seconds."
"Clockwork timing." His hand reached past me, pointing to a section of my sketch. His arm brushed mine. Electricity literally sparked between us, blue-white arcs that jumped from his skin to mine and back.
I gasped. The sensation was too intense—pleasure and pain and something that made every nerve ending in my body light up simultaneously.
"Sorry." He didn't pull away. "The bond amplifies physical contact. Especially when we're both engaged emotionally."
"I'm engaged intellectually," I corrected automatically.
"For you, that's the same thing." Through the bond, I felt his recognition. His understanding that my mind and body weren't separate, that arousing one aroused the other. "Keep going. Explain the power distribution."
I returned to the sketch, but my hand was shaking now. Every time I reached up, my arm brushed his. Every brush sent sparks cascading. The electricity hummed through my body, pooling in places that made me want to press my thighs together.
"The primary crystal—here—takes the initial power load," I managed. "It steps up the voltage to transmission levels, then splits the signal to the secondary crystals. They modulate at their assigned frequencies, and the combined output—"
His hand covered mine on the chalk. Held it still against the wall.
The electricity didn't just spark this time. It flooded. His hand to mine, up my arm, across my shoulders, down my spine. I felt it in my teeth. In my core. Between my legs where that pressure-heat had been building since breakfast.
I made a sound that definitely wasn't intellectual.
"Thalia." His voice was rough. "Look at me."
I turned. He was so close. His storm-gray eyes had gone electric blue, crackling with the same energy that danced between our joined hands.
"This is the bond," he said quietly. "It wants completion. Physical union to seal the connection permanently." His thumb traced across my knuckles. More sparks. "But you're not ready."
"I could be." The words slipped out. My body was screaming at me that I was ready, that I wanted his hands on me, wanted to understand what this heat meant.
"Not physically. Emotionally." His free hand came up to cup my face. His thumb brushed the bond mark on my temple, sending cascading pleasure through my entire nervous system. "You're still performing, Little One. Still trying to be what you think I need instead of discovering what you actually want."
I realized he was right. I'd spent breakfast responding to his praise like I was supposed to. Had approached this technical problem like proving my worth. Even now, my arousal was tangled with the need to please him, to be good, to earn this safety.
"Teach me," I whispered. "Please. I don't know how to want things just for myself."
Through the bond, I felt his satisfaction. His patience. His absolute certainty that we'd get there.
"That's what we're going to do tomorrow," he said, his hand still cupping my face. "We're going to draft a Caretaker Pact. Together. And you're going to learn what you want by negotiating for it. But first, bathing."
Eveninglightturnedtheglass walls amber when Zephyron led me to the nursery's bathroom. I'd used the facilities over the past three days but hadn't really looked at the space—too focused on basic function to notice the details. Now I saw it properly. A deep tub, big enough for two adults easily. A separate shower with rainfall heads. Everything in storm-cloudgray and silver, clean and modern and completely unlike the cult's communal washing rooms.
"Sit." Zephyron gestured to a low stool positioned near the tub. "Your hair needs proper washing."
My hand went automatically to my hair—still tangled, still carrying three days of forest dirt and cult grime despite my attempts at basic cleaning. The braids I'd worn as High Priestess had been severe, wrapped around my head in patterns that signified rank. I'd torn them out while running. Now my hair hung limp and knotted past my shoulders.
I sat. The stool was padded, comfortable. Zephyron moved behind me and I tensed automatically.
"Relax." His hands rested lightly on my shoulders. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I know." I did know. Through the bond, I felt only patience and care. But six years of cult conditioning didn't disappear in three days. Six years of having my body controlled, positioned, used for ritual purposes without my consent.
His hands squeezed gently, then released. "Tell me if anything is uncomfortable. Use your words."
The emphasis on words, on consent, on my active participation—it steadied something in my chest.
He turned on the water. The sound was soothing, steady. Warm spray hit the back of my neck and I gasped at the temperature. Not too hot. Just perfect. The cult's washing rooms had been cold water only, temperature control considered a luxury that promoted spiritual softness.
His fingers worked through my hair, wetting it thoroughly. The touch was careful, methodical. When he hit a tangle, he worked it loose with patience rather than just pulling through.
