"No."
He nodded like he'd expected that answer. "I'll figure it out."
"What if you don't?" The fear I'd been holding back started creeping in again. "What if one of the other fighters gets their hands on me before you can reach him? What if—"
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that."
"I won't let it happen." His voice was absolute. Certain.
"How?" I demanded. "How can you possibly—"
"I'll keep winning."
The simplicity of it should've been laughable. It should've been impossible.
But looking at him—at the scars, at the strength, at the absolute determination in his eyes—I believed him.
He'd fought six opponents tonight. Had taken a blade across his chest because he'd been watching me instead of his enemy. He'd won anyway.
He'd keep winning.
For me.
The thought made something warm unfurl in my chest, something I didn't want to examine too closely. I looked at him—really looked at him. At the way he held himself despite the pain. At the scars that mapped a history of violence and survival. At the eyes that had looked at me in that cage like I was something worth fighting for.
He was a monster by human standards. Covered in a thick pelt, built like something designed for killing, clearly capable of brutal violence.
But he'd asked if I was okay before he'd even acknowledged his own injuries.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
I took the tray when we finished, carrying it back to the table. My hands moved on autopilot, arranging the empty dishes, buying myself time to think.
Behind me, I heard Ahrick stand. Heard his footsteps—still uneven, still pained—move toward the shower.
The water started running a moment later, and I tried hard not to picture what that meant. Tried not to think about him standing under the spray, blood washing off that massive body, running down all those muscles I'd just spent touching while I stitched him up.
I focused on the dishes. On the counter. On anything except the sound of water and the knowledge that he was naked less than twenty feet away.
But my body had other ideas. Heat pooled low in my stomach, unwanted and unwelcome. My skin felt too tight. I could still feel the texture of his pelt under my fingertips, still remember the way his muscles had shifted beneath my hands when I'd cleaned his wounds.
This was insane. Completely insane.
I was a prisoner. He was a prisoner. We were both trapped in some alien nightmare. People were dying.Icould die.
And here I was, getting turned on by the sound of running water.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I pressed my palms flat against the table, trying to ground myself. Trying to think rationally. This wasn't attraction—it couldn't be. It was just... stress. Adrenaline. Some kind of fucked-up survival instinct my brain had cooked up because Ahrick was strong and capable and the only thing standing between me and whatever fresh horror waited outside that door.
That's all this was. Biology. Chemistry. My body doing stupid, primitive things because it thought big-strong-protector equaled safety.
Except that didn't explain why my fingers still tingled from touching him. Why I could still feel the warmth of his skin—or whatever you called it under all that pelt—radiating against my palms. Why the memory of his voice, rough and concerned, asking if I was okay, made something clench deep in my chest.
I was losing it. I had to be. There was no other explanation for why I was standing here, heart racing, skin flushed, thinking about a seven-foot-tall alien warrior like he was some kind of romance novel hero instead of a fellow prisoner.
