Chapter 18 Leena
LEENA
The space between us feels wrong because it’s there at all.
A second ago there wasn’t any. No room to think, no room to question, no room to do anything except react. To respond… to give…
Now there’s air. Still. Empty.
My back rests against the stone. I haven’t moved. I haven’t quite caught up to the fact that he stepped away. That he stopped.
My lips tingle as they cool. I lick them, tasting him. I pull in a breath that doesn’t feel like it goes deep enough.
I don’t move. Because if I do, it makes it real. That it’s over. That he chose to stop.
My pulse continues racing, heat lingering along my skin where his hands were, where his body pressed close enough that there wasn’t any question about what was happening.
What he was doing. What I—
My thoughts stall because that part isn’t as clean.
I should be angry. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Didn’t—my breath catches. I didn’t stop him. I didn’t pull away. Didn’t push him back. Didn’t even try.
I didn’t want to.
My fingers curl against the stone wall, trying to fix myself in the moment as the memory of it flashes sharp. The heat. The pressure. The way everything narrowed until there wasn’t anything else except him. Except us.
I swallow. Hard.
That wasn’t fear. I know what fear feels like. This wasn’t that. I lift my gaze to him.
He stepped back. The space he created is deliberate. Controlled. Every line of his body is tight, like he forced himself piece by piece. He dips his head, not in submission or weakness, in acknowledgment.
In acquiescence that he did something wrong. There is something in my chest that I don’t expect. Because he didn’t hurt me or force me.
He could have. That truth is clear and impossible to ignore. He’s stronger and faster. Completely capable of overwhelming me if he chose to.
He didn’t. He stopped.
I push off the wall slowly, testing my balance more out of habit than necessity. My legs are heavy, but steadier than before. Probably because my attention isn’t split between survival and this.
It’s all here. Between us.
“You stopped.”
The words come out quieter than I intend. He stares at the floor, silent, then slowly lifts his eyes. His gaze meets mine for a fraction of a second before shifting away, like holding it there too long is something he’s avoiding.
“Yes.”
Simple and controlled, but not indifferent. I take a step closer, not trying to close the distance, just lessening it.
“You didn’t have to,” I say.
His eyes jerk to mine immediately, widening with surprise.
“You think I did not?”
There’s something under the words that’s not anger, it’s something tighter. More dangerous. I hold his gaze.
“I think you chose to.”
The silence that follows is different. Weighted with something that hasn’t fully formed yet. He shifts, subtle, but I see it. The edge that was there before is still there, but it’s not the only thing anymore.
“You are not—” he starts, then stops. The words don’t come cleanly, not like his usual precise answers. I wait and he exhales slowly. “For taking.”
The phrasing is rough. Not quite right. But I understand it anyway.
“I know,” I say.
Because I do. Because if that was his intention this would feel very different.
My pulse kicks, but this time it’s not from confusion, it’s something else.
Something I’m not used to feeling, especially in the middle of a situation like this, something that makes me take another step forward before I fully think it through.
“You felt it,” I say. It’s not a question and his stillness is answer enough. “That wasn’t just…” I trail off, searching for the right word and coming up empty. “Whatever they did to you.”
He narrows his eyes, his jaw tightens, and a low hiss slides out.
“No.”
The word comes faster than anything else he’s said. It carries something behind it. A weight. A meaning. Simple and clear.
Mine.
It’s not spoken, but I hear it, and I don’t step back from it.
Even though every logical part of me is listing reasons why this is the worst possible place to lean into anything like this. They’re out there. The unknown aliens. A new threat hunting him. Watching. Waiting. And I’m standing here thinking about… him.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, exhaling slowly.
But the words have no weight. They’re stopping nothing. Definitely not enough to make me move away. Because even as I say it, I close the distance between us.
I lift my hand, pausing for half a second before settling it against his chest, feeling the steady, controlled rhythm of his hearts beneath my palm. Real. Present. Here.
I look up and hold his gaze. And this time, when I lean in, it’s not instinct.
It’s choice.
He doesn’t move for a fraction of a second. The space between us holds on a knife edge, balanced on whatever line he drew for himself a moment ago. I feel his restraint. The control he holds in place, and I push into it anyway.
I press my hand more firmly against his chest, feeling the shift as his breathing changes just enough that I know I’m not imagining any of this.
“You can say no,” I tell him quietly. The words are steadier than I expect. “They haven’t taken that from you.”
He narrows his eyes, not uncertain, focused on me. On the fact that I didn’t step away.
“I am not without control,” he says, like he’s stating it for both of us.
“I know.”
I do. That’s the point.
My thumb moves without permission, brushing slightly against the edge of one of the scales along his chest. The texture is smoother than I expect, warmer than before.
He doesn’t stop me. But I feel the way every part of him goes tighter. Held. Like something in him is waiting to snap or settle depending on what I do next.
I don’t give it time to decide before I close the last of the space. This time my lips find his. I’m not tentative or testing. This is deliberate.
I start softer than he did, gently pressing my lips to his.
Tasting his with my tongue. He exhales—slow at first, controlled—and then something shifts.
Not uncontrolled, but not held back either.
His hand comes up slow, more aware, and settles on my waist. He doesn’t pull or force, he holds. Waiting for me.
I press closer in answer, and that’s all it takes. The control changes shape. It’s not gone or broken, but redirected. He tightens his grip, not enough to trap, just enough to make it clear he’s there, that he’s not going anywhere.
He moves his mouth against mine, deeper and more certain. The edge from before still there but sharpened into something focused instead of overwhelming. Every touch follows that same line. Intent. Aware. Chosen.
I lift my free hand, sliding up along his arm, feeling the tension and the strength held tight beneath the surface. He shifts with me, angling so that the contact deepens and the space between us disappears. This time it’s different, not taken. Not overwhelmed. Built.
I feel it in the way he moves. In the way he pauses for a fraction of a second before each adjustment, like he’s checking, recalibrating, making sure I’m still there. Still with him.
And I am. More than I have any right to be.
The thought flickers and fades as quickly as it comes because right now I don’t care.
The world outside the tunnel doesn’t exist. Not the searching drones or the figures moving through the rock.
Not the fact that this is the worst possible place to let anything like this happen.
All of it falls away. There’s only this. Him.
The way his hands move, exploring, learning, but no longer without thought. No longer pushing past something I did not choose. His touch maps me in a way that feels different. It’s not claiming, it’s understanding.
The shift is subtle, but it’s there and it matters.
My breath catches as his hand slides higher along my side, the contact sending a sharp, unexpected heat through me that has nothing to do with the trapped warmth of the tunnel.
I press closer without thinking. That small movement—that choice—pulls a response from him that I feel all the way through me.
A low, controlled exhale. A tightening of his hold. Not losing control. Holding it. Using it.
I tilt my head, deepening the kiss, letting it linger longer than I should, longer than makes sense. Long enough that I forget, just for a second, where we are. What’s waiting outside. What happens if we stop paying attention for too long. But I can’t hold that thought away for long.
He doesn’t move away. The tension in him shifts, drawing tighter. And then a low sound rolls out of him. It’s not loud, but it is unmistakable. A growl. It settles low in my chest, not threatening, claiming, as his gaze snaps back to mine.
Whatever restraint he rebuilt is there, but it’s thinner. Held instead of absolute.
My breath catches.
I don’t step back. I don’t even think about it.
Because I see it the moment he decides not to lose control. But to take it.
His hand closes around my waist, and he pulls me close. Harder. Faster. Like he’s done waiting. Done holding that distance he forced between us.
My back hits the stone again, but I don’t brace against it.
I lean into him. Give into it.
My hands come up without thought, gripping him, pulling him closer as his mouth finds mine again. Deeper. More certain. The edge no longer held back, just… directed.
Mine.
The word doesn’t come from me, but I feel it anyway.
In the way he holds me. In the way his body presses in, leaving no space between us. No question about what this is now.
Claim.
My breath breaks against his as I answer him, matching the intensity, not trying to slow him, not trying to stop him, because I don’t want to.
His hand moves. Strong and deliberate as it slides along my side, higher, then lower, learning me in a way that’s no longer accidental.
Every movement draws a reaction I don’t try to hide, don’t try to control, because he’s not pushing past me anymore. He’s pulling me with him. And I go. Willing.
My fingers tighten against him, my body shifting instinctively, opening, responding, giving him everything he’s asking for without a single word, because I understand it now. Not just what he wants. What he’s choosing.
The difference makes this something else entirely.
His hand slides lower, over my hip. His thumb hooks inside the waist of my pants. I gasp. He pauses, eyes on mine, but only for an instant. Long enough to check I’m okay before he tugs them down. They slide, slipping over my hip, off my ass.
Musk fills the air. We kiss, rough, almost violent. Claiming.
He slides his hand over my hip, and I push into him.
He presses, pulling up… my lips part in welcome. Wet. Ready. Needing.
He pauses. Holding. Again.
“Yes,” I exhale, working my hips back and forth. Needing more. Needing him.
His eyes burn bright, never closing. I slide my hands up and grab onto his horns, pulling him closer.
“Gah,” I gasp as he penetrates not with one, but three fingers.
They slide in easy. Filling. So full. I pant, thrusting forward. Driving him deeper.
He growls, crushing me against the wall. Covering me.
He moves his fingers like he knows me perfectly. Finding every spot. Pleasure builds, mounting higher.
His tongue penetrates like his fingers. Searching. Finding. Claiming.
“Mine,” he growls, low and harsh.
I can’t form words, so I do the only halfway coherent thing I can. I moan.
Then I’m taken over by an explosion.
I cry out, clinging to him, as wave after wave crashes through. I buck. I sway. I ride his fingers like it’s a monster I have to break.
When the last passes, I’m clinging to him, panting. Unable to catch my breath. Hearing only the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
Then something crashes outside the tunnel.