He's handsome in a way I keep forgetting to notice. Not the way Atlas is handsome—all control and architecture, a facedesigned to command rooms. Not the way Zero is—sharp and dangerous, the kind of face that makes you look twice because your survival instincts told you to.
Bane is handsome the way a storm is handsome. Something about the tension between what he shows the world and what lives underneath. The sharp jaw and the soft mouth. The hard eyes and the way they go completely defenseless when he looks at me.
My thumb traces along his cheekbone. Down. Along the line of his jaw. The stubble is rough under my fingertip—two days of growth, maybe three. He hasn't shaved since he walked into this place. Hasn't done anything except hold me and feed me and bandage my wounds and try to make things easier.
His lips part slightly. A soft exhale. His face turns—just barely, just a fraction—into my palm. Seeking. Even unconscious, even drugged, his body reaches for my touch the way a plant reaches for light.
My chest does something painful and sweet and complicated.
I lean down. Press my lips against his forehead. Let them rest there. His skin is warm. His hair smells like sweat and soap and, underneath it all, amber.
"Thank you," I whisper against his skin. For the bandages. For the blanket. For the jokes about blindfold hygiene. For making my stomach flutter.
For being here.
His breathing deepens. Steadies. He's under.
Whatever they gave him this time was stronger than before. Designed to keep him docile. Manageable. To make sure the man who walked into a trafficking facility voluntarily stays exactly where they put him.
They know what he is. They're making sure it stays buried.
The afternoon drags.
Time in this cell has no edges—it's just the hum and the light and the slow migration of shadows under the door. Bane sleeps. Wakes. Sleeps again. Each time he surfaces, he's groggier. More disoriented. He calls me Max once and then, twenty minutes later, calls me Atlas, and the confusion in his eyes when I correct him makes something cold settle in my stomach.
I sit beside him. Let him lean into me. His head on my lap, his breathing slow and drugged, his bound hands limp next to my thigh.
I think about last night.
Not the sex—not the physical mechanics of it, not the heat and the need and the sounds. I think about the moment after. The knot holding us together. His mouth on my neck, right on the spot, the bonding gland, and the tension in his jaw—the effort of not. The choice he made. For me.
Not here. Not drugged. Not in a cage. If I ever—if that ever happens—I want you to choose it.
Is that something I would want? To be bitten? To beclaimed?
I thread my fingers through his where they rest against my thigh. His hand twitches. Squeezes weakly. Holds on even in the fog.
We're quiet for a long time.
Through the wall, Wren's lullaby drifts. Thin. Sweet. I press my free hand flat against the concrete and feel the vibration of her voice.
I still plan to keep my promise about getting her out of here.
But then the lullaby fades. The silence comes back.
And before I can process–footsteps, a lock buzzing.
Not ours. Wren's cell.
Shit.
I press my ear harder against the wall. Footsteps inside her room. Heavy. Male. A voice I can't make out—low, clipped, giving instructions. Then Wren's voice, small and trembling: "No—please, I don't want to—"
A sound. Sharp. The unmistakable crack of an open hand hitting skin. My stomach lurches.
Silence.
Then screaming.
