11
Mine.
The word wasn't a thought so much as a biological imperative, rewriting Kirr’s DNA. He lay on his back, staring up at the dim ceiling panels of his quarters—but the small, warm weight pressed against his side held him captive. He didn't move. He barely dared to breathe too deeply, afraid the shift of his breathing might disturb her.
She was asleep. Her body limp and heavy in the aftermath of what they'd just done.
He swept a hand down the curve of her spine. Her skin was so soft. He was used to the rough texture of leather armor and the cold bite of metal. The roughness of his own skin. She was none of those things. She was delicate. Fragile, in a way that made his chest ache.
He shifted his grip, spanning her waist. His thumb and middle finger nearly met on the other side.
Draanth, she was small.
The contrast between them was ridiculous. He was seven feet of hardened muscle bred for violence, and the top of her head barely reached his chest. Yet she fit against him like she'd been made to. Made for him.
He traced the dip of her lower back as the last few hours played on loop in his head.
She hadn't fought him.
She'd surrendered. Looked him in the eye, accepted everything he gave her… everything he wanted from her, and given him everything in return.
Trust. She'd given him trust.
It settled deep in his soul. All lathar males grew up knowing the odds. There were no females of their own species left. Most warriors lived and died without ever holding a female, let alone managing to claim one. They found purpose in duty, in the clan, in war.
Kirr had accepted that. He was good at war. He understood duty.
But this? This quiet, still moment in the dark, with a female sleeping trustingly in his arms, her scent filling his lungs? He hadn't known he was starving until he'd tasted it.
Curling his arm tighter around her, he pulled her flush against him. His. His to keep. His to guard.
A sharp burn shot through his wrist.
He hissed through his teeth, flexing his fingers. The sensation was intense, like a frayed wire shorting out under his skin. It had started right after he'd poured himself into her, a low-level buzz that was quickly becoming a nuisance.
Lifting his arm, he squinted at his wrist in the dim light.
Nothing. Just his own skin, bronze and unblemished, the thick tendons shifting as he rotated his hand.
He rubbed at the spot with his thumb, grimacing. Probably just a strained nerve. Or adrenaline. He'd been wound tighter than a docking clamp for days, fueled by rage, jealousy, and lust. His body was finally coming down from the high, and his nerves were misfiring.
Letting his hand fall back to the mattress, he dismissed the irritation. He had more important things to focus on.
Harper shifted in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and turned her head into his shoulder. Her arm draped across him, her fingers curling loosely against his pectoral muscle.
He stilled, letting her settle, then resumed his slow exploration of her skin. He wanted to memorize her. A map of every inch of her, stored for recall during boring command briefings.
So he ran his fingertips down her upper arm, over the gentle curve of her elbow, and along the inside of her forearm.
The texture changed.
He frowned, his fingers retracing the path. The skin wasn't smooth there. It was uneven. Ridged.
Slow so that he wouldn't wake her, he lifted her arm into the meager light filtering in from the corridor.
Pale, silvery lines crisscrossed the tender skin of her inner forearm. They were old, faded with time, but distinct against her delicate skin. Scars. And not just one or two. There were several, jagged and irregular, like glass had shattered and rained down on her.
His stomach twisted.
