Chapter Nine
Elara
I make it back to Asha’s recovery room without looking over my shoulder.
Nima walks beside me. Though Rhazek is no longer near, the heat of his touch persists beneath my skin.
Asha is asleep when we reach her room, curled on her side, blanket up to her chin. Seryn stands beside her bed checking readings on a floating display. She glances up when we enter.
I sit beside Asha’s bed.
Asha stirs but does not wake. Her small hand twitches on the blanket, searching.
I reach out and let her fingers curl around two of mine.
I lean closer and whisper, “I’m here.”
“Dr. Menon is awake and complaining about my equipment,” Seryn says.
“Then he’s fine.”
Seryn studies me. “Your temperature is rising.”
I look down at the fingers that touched Rhazek’s horn.
They are trembling.
A faint gold shimmer lies beneath my skin, visible only when the light catches it. I turn my hand and watch it vanish, then appear again.
“What is that?”
I ease my fingers out of Asha’s grasp and offer Seryn my hand. She avoids the burn sealant and holds the scanner over my palm.
“Bond residue.”
Nima says softly, “It’s from touching his horn?”
Seryn watches the scan. “Likely. The sedatives have cleared, but the resonance is still strengthening.”
“Any pain? Nausea? Dizziness?” Seryn asks.
“A little dizziness.”
“And where do you feel the heat?”
“My skin.”
“And other places,” I mutter.
Nima retreats to fetch water.
I draw a slow breath. “What happens if I ignore it?”
“Discomfort, poor sleep, possibly fever. We can treat the symptoms without deepening the bond.”
I press my free hand against my abdomen.
Seryn sees the gesture. “Nothing we know of suggests horn contact could cause pregnancy.”
I close my fingers until the shimmer disappears.
Asha turns over in sleep, murmurs something about Milo, and settles again.
Nima returns with the cup and hands it to me.
I drink, then set the cup down.
“I want to talk to Rhazek,” I say.
Seryn studies me. “Nima stays nearby.”
“Fine.”
The Black Star carries my request. A moment later she asks whether I want him in recovery or my quarters.
“My quarters,” I say.
Walking back to my quarters feels longer this time.
The corridors are quieter after the attack, but not calm. Dravari move with controlled purpose. Repair crews work inside opened walls. Gold veins pulse brighter around damage sites, knitting living metal closed. The Black Star is healing herself.
Rhazek waits several paces from my door in a sleeveless black tunic. Fresh dressings cross his shoulder and disappear beneath the fabric. His long dark hair is loose except for two braids near his temples, their metal rings catching the light.
His horns sweep back from his face, black and polished and now unforgivably familiar to my fingertips.
Nima makes a soft sound behind me. “I’ll be right here.”
The door opens, and Rhazek moves aside to let me enter.
I walk past him into the room.
Nima remains in the corridor.
Stars shine through the viewing glass. Gold lines glow low in the walls, and a cup of water waits on the table.
I turn near the center of the room.
Rhazek stands just inside the doorway.
“You can come in farther,” I say. He moves closer, leaving several feet between us.
“What do you need?” he asks.
I look down at my hand. The gold shimmer has brightened again. Faint, but there.
“What if I want this because of the bond?” I ask.
“Then we wait. You owe me nothing.”
“Even if it hurts?”
“My pain is mine to manage.”
“What does it feel like?” I ask.
His gaze drops to my hand again.
“Like standing outside a locked door while every instinct in me says something precious is burning on the other side.”
From the corridor, Nima clears her throat.
Then she says gently, “Do you want the door closed?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll stay right outside. Say my name and I’m coming in with something heavy.”
The door closes without locking.
The privacy field settles with a soft sound like a breath drawn under water.
His eyes stay on mine. “Tell me where not to touch.”
I think of cuffs, needles, hands that treated my body like inventory. “Not my wrists. Don’t pin me down.”
“Never.”
“No claws. No tail wrapping.”
His voice roughens. “Not unless you ask.”
Good. The word lands hot and clean in my chest. “Then touch me.”
I lift my hand and press it to the center of his chest.
His tunic is warm under my palm. Beneath it, both heartbeats strike hard. One steady. One stuttering like I have offended it personally.
His hand rises to my shoulder, slowly enough that I can move away.
I lean into it. His hand slides to the side of my neck, avoiding the bruised place. His thumb rests below my jaw.
His other hand settles at my waist.
The heat under my skin steadies. My mind is present.
I tilt my head back. “You’re scared of me.”
His gaze holds mine. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want.”
My fingers curl into his tunic.
“Specifics help.”
His eyes drop to my mouth.
“I want your mouth,” he says, voice roughening. “I want your hands on my horns while I learn every place that makes you shake.”
“I want your scent on my skin. Your taste on my tongue. I want to lay you down and make you forget every hand that ever took without asking.”
“And I want you to tell me when to stop. Or when not to.”
I turn toward the bed and sit on its edge.
At my beckoning, he crosses the room.
I reach for him.
He drops to one knee before I can touch.
He kneels between my feet, still taller than I am seated, but no longer towering over me. His hands rest on his thighs, claws curled inward.
I reach up and touch his face.
His cheek is warm, smooth in some places and faintly ridged near his jaw. He leans into my hand.
He kisses my forearm just above the bandage.
My fingers tighten against his face.
His mouth touches the same place again.
I stroke the base of his horn. A growl breaks out of him, and my knees tighten against his sides.
I lean forward and kiss him.
He is too tall even kneeling, so the first kiss lands against the corner of his mouth, clumsy and soft and not at all the devastating romantic moment my traitor body probably imagined.
I huff a laugh.
His fingers slide into my hair.
Then he kisses me properly.
His mouth moves over mine carefully. His lips are hot, his teeth sharp when they graze, his breath carrying the second-tone vibration that makes me shudder.
I open my mouth on a gasp.
I swallow. “More.”
His mouth returns to mine, deeper. One hand cups my head; the other braces beside my hip.
I touch his horn again.
He groans into my mouth.
My hands move over him greedily now. Horn, jaw, throat, shoulder. His body is all heat and restrained power. Every place I touch lights beneath my fingers, gold threading through dark markings. I wonder if he can feel each mark after I lift my hand.
He pulls back only enough to speak. “Elara.”
I chase his mouth. “What?”
“If we continue, the bond may deepen.”
I freeze.
“How much?” I ask.
“I do not know. The old rites used intention, blood, and full mating. We are doing none of that.”
“So it could become harder for both of us to leave.”
My fingers slide from his shoulders to the side of his neck.
“No rites. No blood. No full mating.”
“It does not make pregnancy impossible,” he says, voice harsh. “But I will not take one more inch than you name.”
I hold his gaze. “I understand. I still want this much. Nothing beyond it.”
I kiss him again.
He moves over me as I lean back, one arm braced beside my shoulder, the other easing my back down without jarring my ribs.
I slide one leg along his side, and his tail lashes once behind him before coiling against the floor.
I look down.
The tip of his tail lifts toward my ankle, waiting.
“Touching,” I whisper. “No restraint.”
The first brush is against my ankle.
Warm. Smooth. Strong.
His tail slides slowly along the outside of my calf, then away. A dark line of heat traces up my leg through the soft fabric.
My breath breaks.
His mouth finds my throat, avoiding bruises with maddening precision. He kisses below my ear. Along my jaw. The side of my neck that does not hurt.
I arch into him.
Pain pinches my ribs.
He eases back as I guide his hands away from my ribs.
His hands learn me over my clothes. My waist, my hips, my thighs, the soft places I expect him to grab and the sore places he avoids.
I lift my arms for him to ease off my top.
His fingers find the garment’s seam. The Dravari fabric loosens under his touch like it recognizes him, which I am choosing not to think about right now.
He lifts it away slowly.
The room cools against my skin.
His gaze follows the bruises as I guide his mouth to the uninjured skin above my heart.
His lips settle there.
He moves lower, giving me time to guide him. His teeth graze without biting.
I thread my fingers into his hair.
The metal rings in his braids brush my knuckles.
His tail slides along my calf again and rests beside my hip.
This time I hold the base of his horn. His whole body shudders over mine.
His mouth follows the movement of my body.
He supports my back with one hand as I arch.
The ache builds low and deep until I am biting my lip to stay quiet. Then he murmurs, “Let me hear what I do to you,” and I cannot stay quiet at all.
At some point, my hands push at his tunic.
He eases it over his head.
Rhazek without armor is still a weapon, but now I can see the living body beneath the legend.
Broad chest. Dark ridged markings running from collarbone to ribs.
Old scars crossing silver-black skin. New healing wounds from the breach.
Powerful shoulders, narrow waist, muscles shifting under skin that glows where my hands have been.
I sit up slowly, his hands settling at my waist.
I touch his chest.
I lean in and press my mouth to the glowing line.
Rhazek’s hands tighten at my waist.
His breath breaks on a Dravari word the translator does not catch.
I kiss another mark, then follow it down his chest. His body shakes. My fingers explore his scars and the place where his second heart beats deeper than the first.