The fact that she'd been attracted to him—that spike of arousal he'd scented—didn't give him the right to this. Attraction wasn't consent. Attraction wasn't an invitation. It was a biological response she probably wished she could control just as much as he wished he could control his.
He dried off and climbed back into bed, the sheets cool and unwelcoming now. Through the wall, silence. Harper was asleep. Safe in the guest room, unaware that he'd just lost control so thoroughly.
Good.
She'd never know. He'd make sure of it.
Tomorrow, he'd take her to see Delilah—keep his promise, prove through actions that he was reliable. He'd maintain professional distance. Give her space. Stop letting his imagination run wild just because she'd looked at him with heat in her eyes for three seconds.
She was his responsibility.
That meant protecting her from himself too.
He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the way his body still hummed with awareness. Tried to forget the fantasy of her surrendering to him. Tried to convince himself that control was possible when every instinct screamed at him to go to her, to claim her, to make the fantasy real.
He'd controlled himself through worse. Through combat that made his blood sing with violence. Through situations where one wrong move meant death. This was no different. He just had to apply the same discipline, the same iron will he used in the field.
Except it felt different.
Because in the field, control meant survival. Here, control meant denying himself something he wanted more than his next breath. Meant pretending he didn't imagine her in his bed every time he closed his eyes. Meant keeping his distance from a female who looked at him like he was safety and danger wrapped in one impossible package.
Through the wall, a soft sound. Harper, shifting in her sleep.
His entire body went taut, listening. Waiting to see if she'd wake, if she'd call out, if she needed him.
Silence settled again.
She was fine. Asleep. Safe.
And he was lying here in the dark, more aware of her than he'd been of any female in his life, trying to convince himself that discipline would be enough.
It had to be enough.
Because the alternative—admitting that he wanted her, that he craved her surrender, that the size difference and her vulnerability and her strength all combined into something that called to every dominant instinct he possessed—wasn't an option.
She deserved better.
He'd be better.
Tomorrow he'd prove it.
He stared at the ceiling and counted his breaths, using the same meditation technique that had gotten him through interrogation training. Control. Discipline. Focus.
It almost worked.
Almost.
Harper woke to the sound of Kirr's voice through the door, quiet but firm enough to pull her from sleep.
"Harper. Medical bay visiting hours start in thirty minutes."
She sat up, her body protesting the movement. Every muscle ached from tension she hadn't released, from lying rigid in bed while her mind replayed water sliding down his chest and his golden eyes watching her with that patience.
"I'm up." Her voice came out rough. She cleared her throat. "Thanks."
His footsteps retreated.
Thirty minutes. She'd manage thirty minutes of being functional.
