Chapter 13
Chloe
Oh shit.
Fucking.
The word ricocheted through my mind like a bullet, leaving trails of fire and frost in its wake. The thought of being intimate with Nansar—truly intimate—sent my heart into a wild, erratic rhythm that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a hunger I'd thought long dead.
I watched him pace the confines of our prison, all coiled muscle and restless energy, moving with that preternatural grace that made something low in my belly tighten with want. When had that happened? When had I started noticing him like this?
When had the breadth of his shoulders stopped being merely impressive and become something I wanted to trace with my fingertips?
When had the flex and play of muscle beneath his skin transformed from background detail to a sight that made my mouth go dry?
When had his voice—that deep, rumbling timbre—shifted from comfort to temptation, each word a caress that skittered down my spine like a lover's touch?
After Declan—after what he'd done, what he'd taken—I'd been certain that part of me had been buried so deep it would never surface again.
The part that could feel desire without disgust. The part that could crave a man's touch without immediately wanting to claw my own skin off.
The part that could experience arousal as anything other than a prelude to violation.
Intimacy had become synonymous with horror. The mere thought of it would send me spiraling into panic, into memories of helplessness and violation that made me want to scrub myself raw until I'd shed every layer of skin he'd touched.
But the stains Declan left weren't the kind that washed away with soap and scalding water, no matter how hard I tried.
He'd drugged me. Stolen my ability to fight, to flee, to even form the word no.
He'd taken my body and used it while I was trapped inside, screaming silently, powerless to stop him.
The physical trauma had been devastating enough, but it was the psychological aftermath that had truly broken me—the way it had poisoned every aspect of my sexuality, turned my own body into an enemy I couldn't trust.
Yet somehow, impossibly, Nansar had found a way through the wreckage.
Perhaps it was because he'd never demanded.
Never assumed. Never taken a single thing I hadn't freely offered.
Every touch had been a question, not a command.
Every moment of closeness had been mine to accept or refuse, no pressure, no expectations.
He'd given me something I'd thought Declan had destroyed forever.
Sovereignty over my own body, my own choices, my own desire.
And now that body was waking up, responding to Nansar in ways that left me breathless and bewildered in equal measure.
Was it wrong to want him? Was I somehow betraying my trauma by feeling this liquid heat pooling in my core when those blue-green eyes darkened?
Or was this what healing actually looked like—my battered soul tentatively, tremulously reaching toward pleasure again, toward connection, toward the possibility of reclaiming what had been stolen?
I didn't have answers. I only knew that when Nansar was near, the numbness receded. The fear didn't disappear entirely—perhaps it never would—but it no longer consumed everything else.
When he looked at me, I didn't feel broken.
I felt alive.
And that terrified me almost as much as the alternative.
Nansar turned to face me, and whatever he saw in my expression made him go utterly still.
The concern that flooded those blue-green eyes was so genuine, so achingly tender, that something in my chest cracked open.
He moved toward me with the careful grace of someone approaching a wounded creature—not to strike, but to shelter.
His hands rose, hovering near my shoulders like a question mark in the air between us. Always so careful. Always allowing me the choice.
"Chloe." My name on his lips was a low rumble that resonated through my bones, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "You will never have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I swear it. I'll find a way to get us out of here."
The conviction in his voice made me want to believe him. God, how desperately I wanted to believe him.
The scrape of wood against stone shattered the moment.
We both turned as one of the Welati females from last night slipped through the doorway, her movements quick and furtive as a sparrow's.
She carried a wooden tray laden with flatbread and some kind of stew, the steam rising in lazy spirals.
She wouldn't meet our eyes as she set it on the floor near the entrance, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Wait," I called out, stepping forward before she could flee. "Please. Why are we being kept here? What does the Elder want from us?"
The girl froze, her fingers twisting anxiously in the supple leather of her dress. She glanced toward the doorway like a prisoner eyeing an escape route, then back at me. Conflict played across her delicate features—fear warring with something that might have been sympathy.
"The Elder..." she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "She doubts you are truly mates."
My heart stuttered against my ribs. "What does that mean? What happens if—"
"If you are not mates," she interrupted, the words tumbling out in a rush, "then you have lied to our people." Her gaze flicked to Nansar, and the pity in her eyes made my stomach drop. "They will kill him."
The world tilted sideways. "And me?"
She finally met my gaze fully, and what I saw there turned my blood into ice water in my veins. "They may kill you, but breedable females are venerated in our tribe. More likely..." She swallowed hard. "You would be given to one of the village warriors. As a mate."
"No." The word escaped as barely more than a breath, catching in my throat like broken glass. The thought of strange hands on my body—touching me, claiming me, taking what I hadn't offered—sent darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. My knees threatened to buckle.
"I'm sorry," the girl whispered, and then she was gone, the leather door slamming shut with a finality that echoed through my very bones.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The walls pressed in from all sides, the small cottage transforming into a tomb.
"Chloe." Nansar's voice cut through the rising tide of panic like a lifeline.
"They're going to kill you," I said, my voice trembling so badly I barely recognized it.
"They're going to kill you and then they're going to.
.." The rest of the sentence died in my throat.
I couldn't give voice to it. Couldn't speak aloud the nightmare of being forced into another situation where I had no control, no choice, where my body would once again become territory to be claimed and owned.
"That won't happen," Nansar said, his voice steel wrapped in velvet. He moved closer, and his presence alone seemed to push back against the suffocating fear. "We'll find a way out."
"How?" The word came out desperate, edged with hysteria. "How do we prove we're mates when we're not? When we barely know each other?"
Nansar fell silent, his jaw working as though he were chewing on words too difficult to swallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful, measured, like he was navigating a minefield. "There is... one way. A way that would leave no doubt in the Elder's mind."
I stared at him, my mind scrambling to catch up with what he wasn't quite saying. And then understanding crashed over me.
"Oh," I whispered. "Oh."
My chest constricted, panic clawing its way up my throat with razor-sharp talons. "I can't—" The words came out strangled, broken. "Nansar, I can't."
The memories hit me like cold, clammy fingers skittering across my skin.
Declan's hands. The way my body had responded even as my mind screamed in protest, betraying me in the cruelest way possible.
The feeling of being trapped in my own skin, a passenger in a vehicle I couldn't control, watching helplessly as everything was taken from me.
Even as attractive as I found Nansar—and God, I did find him attractive—the thought of that kind of intimacy sent terror flooding through every nerve.
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly freezing despite the warmth of the cottage. "After what happened with Declan, I don't know if I can ever—" My voice shattered. "I don't know if I can do that again."
"Chloe." The gentleness in his voice was almost my undoing, but I couldn't look at him. Couldn't bear to see pity in those beautiful eyes.
"I feel safe with you," I said quickly, desperately, the words tumbling out in a torrent. "I do. But that doesn't mean I can just—" I made a helpless gesture, my hands fluttering uselessly. "My body doesn't feel like mine anymore. Does that make sense?"
"Yes," he said simply, without a heartbeat's hesitation.
I finally dared to glance up at him, surprised by the depth of understanding in his expression.
There was no judgment there. No frustration or disappointment.
Just... acceptance. He moved closer, slowly, telegraphing every movement like he was approaching something precious and fragile.
When I didn't pull away, he reached out and gently took my hands in his, his warmth seeping into my cold fingers like sunlight through winter clouds.
"May I hold you?" His voice was barely above a whisper, reverent in its asking.
The question itself—the fact that he asked at all—made something tight and knotted in my chest loosen just a fraction.
I nodded, unable to trust my voice, and he drew me against him with infinite care.
His arms wrapped around me in a way that felt protective rather than confining. Like a fortress rather than a cage.