I look up at him. He’s turned his head, eyes meeting mine—not demanding, but offering.
My lips part.
No sound comes out.
The want isthere. It pounds through me like a second heartbeat. My skin is flushed. My core aches. My head is spinning.
But I don’t say the word.
Not yet.
He watches me for a moment longer, then steps into the bathing pool. Water sloshes, steam rising. He doesn’t look back.
I stand there, trembling.
Wanting.
Confused.
The collar feels heavier around my neck now. Not because it restrains me.
Because part of me doesn’twantto take it off.
And that’s the worst part.
My thoughts won't settle. They churn like the gas storms on Myrrh Prime—violent, gorgeous, unstoppable. Every instinct tells me I should be plotting, resisting, clawing for the nearest escape hatch. But I can’t stop thinking about the weight of his gaze. The sound of his voice. The way his fingers brushed my skin like he owned it.
I’m the captive. And yet, somehow, my body aches for him.
This is sick.I’m sick. Or he’s just that good at messing with my head.
The bathing chamber is already warm, humidity curling around me like a second skin. I set about preparing the bath like a dutiful little servant. Gods, how far I’ve fallen. I would’ve spat in my mother’s face if she’d suggested I’d ever kneel and draw a bath for a pirate. A Reaper.
But I do it anyway. Because... because Iwantto.
I pour in the mineral salts—violet and gold, mined from Aetheris. I swirl them with a carved bone rod until the water glows faintly, glimmering like liquid starlight. Steam billows upward, thick and fragrant, and the scent makes my mouth water—dark spices, citrus rind, something deeper I can’t name. Something that smells like him.
I kneel beside the tub to test the water, watching the tendrils of light spiral beneath the surface. My heart is doing that annoying fluttery thing again, and my skin is already too warm.
And then I hear the door open behind me.
I know it’s him without looking. The hairs on my neck rise, the air shifts, and my entire body becomes aware of his presence in a way that has nothing to do with logic.
I turn—and immediately regret it.
He’s naked.
Utterly. Brazenly. Unapologetically.
My throat closes.
He’s...
Oh.
I’ve seen bodies. I’ve studied anatomy in art class. I’ve visited nude beaches on Venustar III in secret once. But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of Kallus standing there, all seven feet and change of predatory grace and sheer masculinepower.
His skin gleams black like obsidian, stretched taut over coiled muscle. Bone spurs crown his shoulders, gleaming white against the dark. His chest is a perfect sculpture, his abdomentight and ridged, tapering to narrow hips and long, powerful legs. And lower?
