"Draevik." Her voice escapes as a drowsy, strained murmur, the sedative and the sheer adrenaline crash pulling her violently under.
"I am here."
She offers neither a quip nor a threat. Her brow furrows tight with conflict as she breathes raggedly, fighting the tether that strips her autonomy chemically. Her hands remain balled into loose, exhausted fists. She turns her face away from me, burrowing into the thermal cover as if trying to hide from the reality of what her own biology just forced her to endure.
"Sleep." My thumb gently traces the silver line on her wrist.
As Nyra’s breathing finally evens out into the heavy cycle of forced unconsciousness, I watch the stars on the holographic map. The engines burn with a new intensity, fueled by a reason to remain that has transformed a drifting ghost into a man possessed.
I lay there for a long time, watching the way the light of my skin reflects in her dark hair. Finding a reason to remain changes everything, and letting go becomes impossible.
I close my eyes, the exhaustion finally catching up to me. As I drift off, our bond hums at full strength, her signature finally syncing with mine. We are moving deeper into the void, but fearhas no hold on where we are going. Only one certainty remains: she belongs exactly where she is.
Virex Primedrifts forward, silent and deadly, yet in the Sanctum, nothing matters beyond the heat we share and the rhythm of hearts beating in perfect unison. I have found my reason to live, and her name is Nyra.
As I lay her down one last time, my own hands finally still, I know that whatever happens next, we are no longer drifting. We are bound.
CHAPTER 13
NYRA
Artificial light stabs at my eyelids, dragging me out of a sleep so deep it feels like I was buried in the hull plates. I stay still, soaking in the sensation of gravity. My body feels heavy, aching with a slow wave that I eventually realize belongs to me. A continuous, driving heat pulses through the stone to match the cycles of the ship.
He is awake. His presence hangs over me, heavy and undeniable, before I open my eyes. Draevik rests at the dais’ threshold, his back a vast landscape of ash-pale skin and glimmering lines. He looks like a relic, something ancient and terrible that was never meant to be touched by human hands. The veins hidden under his skin flutter with a persistent, calm light, a discerning difference to the chaotic, violent energy he usually radiates.
I shift my weight, and the memories hit me in a messy, disjointed flood: the cold, dark stone of the dais, the flush of his veins, and the intensity in his eyes that made me feel like the only thing left in a dead universe. My skin still carries the ghost of his touch, a lingering electricity that makes my heart skip. I should feel something clean and definitive about last night—shame, maybe, or regret. Instead, the feeling sitting in my chestis something muddier. Warmer. It is beyond fear and past anger, and the absence of both is more terrifying than either one alone.
I lift my right arm, a breath slipping out of me as I peek down at my wrist. Yesterday,Virex Primeshredded this flesh. I should be looking at a mess of gauze and blood or a stump. Instead, a fine, silver line—no thicker than a piece of sewing thread—encircles my skin.
Sitting up with trembling fingers, I trace the smooth, flawless mark, pressing down as I brace for a jolt of agony, but there is only a strange, cool sensation. ThatSovereign Weaveworks like a miracle. It worked through my system, knitting together the mess the ship made of me with a terrifying exactness. Human meds would have left me in a sling for months with a permanent limp in my grip. This is alien. It makes me feel like I have been rebuilt, augmented by the same technology that powers the stars.
"Your cellular recovery is complete," Draevik rumbles, still facing the viewport. The glossy walls beam a soft indigo in time with his words. "TheWeavehas integrated with your biology."
"It's weird," I admit, softly flexing my hand. My grip is perfect—better than before the injury. "A human doctor would have amputated this. Those Hegemony nanites essentially rebuilt a new radius bone from scratch. I should be in pieces. Instead, I feel stronger. Like my structure is forged from the same metal as your hull."
He turns then, and the cold, distant mask he wears like armor is gone this morning. He is focused. He watches me with a predatory sort of curiosity that elevates my pulse. His gaze travels unhurriedly down the length of my body, lingering on the curve of my shoulder and the line of my throat.
Swinging my legs off the dais, I realize that despite being naked, I feel powerful instead of exposed. The thermal cover slips to my waist as I retrieve the bowl the ship produces from arecessed compartment. It is the same thick, savory stew he has been feeding me, but there on the tray sits a small, dense block of something iridescent on the side.
"What's the glow-cube?" I ask, poking curiously at the block with a finger.
"A concentrated nutrient block. It will stabilize the remaining nanites in your bloodstream."
"Great. More grey sludge and a side of glow-sticks." I take a bite of the stew. "Truly, Drae, you're a romantic."
He pauses, his eyes flickering slightly at the shortened name. Bypassing any correction, he stands and moves with a controlled grace that makes the floor tremble. He is closer now, looming over the dais. His thumb brushes my cheek. His skin is like a furnace, radiating a dry, metallic heat.
"I need you to remain on the dais," he instructs, more like a man fascinated by a new toy than a general issuing commands. "The stabilization requires another several hours of rest."
"I'm fine, Draevik. I'm a scavenger; we're built to bounce back," I argue, even as I lean into his touch.
"You are staying." The words are quiet, final. He presses his palm flat against my sternum—over the mark—and the warmth that floods through me is so immediate, so disarming, that my protest dies in my throat. "TheWeavehas sealed the surface. The deeper integration needs time. You will rest, or I will ensure you rest."
I know he means it. I also know I feel completely fine. My grip is strong, my lungs are clear, and the only ache in my body is the pleasant, bruised soreness from last night. But Draevik plants himself between me and the door like a wall of stone, and I have learned enough about this man to know that arguing with him when he is in this mood is like arguing with gravity.
The next twodays pass glacially. I feel restless, alert, ready to move—but every time I stand, he is there. A hand on my shoulder. A roaring rumble that meanssit down. He checks the silver line on my wrist with a clinical focus that gradually shifts into something else entirely. His fingers linger. His thumb traces the healed scar with a pressure that exceeds the language of medicine. When I catch him doing it, he holds my gaze with that firm stare, daring me to name what’s happening here.
On the first morning, I wake to find him sitting on the floor beside the dais, his back against the stone wall, his long legs stretch out across the bio-mat. He is reading something on the holographic display—ship diagnostics, from the look of it—but his free hand rests at the dais’ rim, close enough that his fingers are almost touching mine. Uncertain of his biological sleep requirements or his reasons for staying, I withhold my questions to delay the inevitable answers.
