The silence that follows is the absence of a crowd. No roaring. No chanting. No arena master evaluating my performance value. Just a clean gym, a professional assessor making notes, and the quiet hum of a simulation resetting.
Krilly's reaction reaches me without words: awe, layered with a vivid, specific heat that makes the jade in my forearms brighten before I can control it. She's watching from the observation area, datapad forgotten in her lap, and the bond transmits without filter what my body does to her when it moves at full capacity.
The scenarios escalate. Blade work. Improvised weapons. Tactical response under fire. Protective escort through a hostile corridor, where the objective is keeping the simulated courier alive.
That last scenario is where everything clicks. Notfight this male.Protect this being.My body's capabilities pointed toward something that isn't destruction. The warm, steady color of purpose found settling into my markings.
Forty-five minutes. Soral runs me through every scenario in her assessment battery.
"Level Five security certification approved," she says. "That's the highest rating. Your control is exceptional, Mr. Ka'reen. Particularly the proportionality scores. Most combatants with your capability struggle with restraint."
Mastered restraint. A lifetime of being forced to hurt, and the certificate I earn is for knowing when not to.
"The gym is yours for another hour if you want additional training time." Soral collects her equipment. "Courier Baxter, your partner is cleared for high-risk protective assignments."
"Noted." Krilly's voice comes out tight. The reason is vivid and not related to certification.
Soral's expression suggests she knows exactly what she's leaving behind.
The door closes. We're alone.
Krilly stands. Crosses the gym floor to where I'm standing, towel around my neck, breathing slightly elevated. She looks up at me with an expression that needs no bond to translate: desire so sharp it registers in my own chest, pride layered underneath, and the specific heat of a woman who just watched her bonded male demonstrate exactly how dangerous and howcontrolledthat danger is.
"Show me the disarm move."
"Which one?"
"The joint lock. On the first target."
Her heartbeat is not steady.
"It requires physical demonstration."
"I know what it requires."
I position her. Hands on her shoulders. Professional. "The attacker comes from this angle."
Behind her. Chest against her back. Arms guiding hers.
"Redirect the momentum. Catch the wrist here—"
"Is there a version where you keep talking about wrist rotation?"
"I'm demonstrating proper technique."
"You're pressed against my back, you smell like sweat and combat, and I can feel exactly what this position is doing to you." She turns in my arms. "Skip to the part where we stop pretending."
The fiction dissolves. Her want and mine, amplifying.
But this isn't the jungle. Not survival. Not claiming. Not desperation. This is a gym with good lighting and a locked door and anhour, and two people who have no predators hunting them and no tribunal looming and no reason to be anything but exactly what they want.
"Someone could walk in," I point out.
"Soral said we have an hour. Door's locked."
"The facility has surveillance."
"I'll have Bebo loop it later." She's pulling at my training shirt. Tight fabric, collaborative removal, her hands sliding up my torso. "Right now I need you to stop being tactical and start being—"
