Enough that I can smell the sweat and metal and faint trace of lemon on her skin.
Enough that I don’t need the Meld to feel the connection.
It’s already there.
It’salwaysbeen there.
CHAPTER 3
ARIA
Iyank the neural band off my forehead hard enough to snap the leads. Sparks jump across my peripheral vision like angry stars. My skin itches from the static, fromhim. I can still feel his mind brushing against mine—wild, pulsing, untamed—like a jungle storm with no horizon.
“Dammit,” I mutter, flexing my fingers to get the residual tingle out.
Naull, lounging in his harness like this is some kind of spa day, raises one brow ridge. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse,” I bite, dragging air into my lungs like it might burn out whatever's still buzzing through me. “It’s like trying to sync with a collapsing sun.”
He snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Don’t.”
The chamber stinks of recycled air and warm metal, that fake sterile-clean smell overlaying the copper bite of old electronics. The Meld interface pulses weakly between us—soft blue glimmers like a heartbeat stuttering in real-time. I hate it. Hate how close we have to sit. Hate the way my knees bump against his because the engineers who designed this monstrosityapparently thought “professional” meant “practically straddling your partner.”
My palms are damp. My brain's still fizzing from the crash of his thoughts into mine. He thinks in color and heat and blunt-force instincts. There’s no edges, no structure, no logic. It’s... maddening.
It’s intoxicating.
“Can we take this seriously, please?” I snap.
Naull sits up slightly, that lazy posture slipping into something just shy of focused. “You think I’m not?”
“You joke. You posture. You act like this is a game?—”
“I act like I’vesurvived,Aria. That’s different.”
His tone isn’t sharp, but it lands like a gut punch. I look away, jaw tight.
He’s not wrong.
He’s just... him. And that’s the problem.
I wipe sweat from my upper lip and reattach the neural band. The metal is cold. It stings against my skin.
“I need quiet,” I murmur. “Your thoughts?—”
“Too loud, yeah. I heard.”
“No, not just loud.Saturated.You don’t just think, youfeeleverything. Like a damn emotional monsoon.”
His chuckle rumbles low. “Poetic.”
“Distracting,” I correct.
He watches me, golden eyes too steady. “You ever tried letting go?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
