Chapter 3
AYLA
My lungs burn like fire in my chest. Every breath tastes like ozone and fear, and the metallic tang of blood lingers in the recycled air, even though I don’t think I’m bleeding. Not yet.
The corridor tilts under my feet, and I skid into the wall, catching myself on a busted panel that hisses under my touch. Sparks spit from the seams. Lights flicker overhead, casting everything in strobes of red and white like the ship can’t decide if it’s alive or dying.
I don’t stop.
My boots—thank the stars I had the sense to wear them tonight—slam against the deck with every frantic step.
I leap over a fallen steward, unconscious or dead, and vault a broken food cart still dripping with expensive cheeses and some synth-fruit sauce that smells absurdly sweet for the chaos around me.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, voice catching.
I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t go back.
Not after those eyes.
Gods, those eyes.
I shove the memory away, but it claws its way to the front again—those red, glowing irises like they saw through my skin. Like they recognized something in me I didn’t even know was there.
And then I kicked him in the balls.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat, sharp and nearly deranged, but I choke it back.
The ship groans again. The walls shudder with the aftershock of another system breach. I know this sound—it means the boarding parties are deeper in. My time is running out.
I duck into a side passage and wrench open the emergency maintenance panel. It screeches in protest, but I get it open and slide into the dark, narrow shaft behind it. It's tight—too tight. My shoulder scrapes metal as I climb inside, using handholds bolted into the wall for maintenance workers.
The grate slams shut behind me. I hear boots stomping past a heartbeat later. Not human. Not Helios. Too heavy. Too deliberate.
My breath halts. I freeze. Don’t blink. Don’t even breathe.
The steps pass.
I climb.
The shaft angles up. I pull myself higher, knees slipping on the smoothed metal. My clothes catch in places, snagging. I swear under my breath again.
It’s hot in here. The recycled air isn’t cycling right—probably compromised during the raid. Sweat pools between my shoulder blades, slides down the inside of my thighs. I taste copper and panic.
My hand finds another latch, and I haul myself sideways into a wider stretch of the ductwork.
That’s when I hear it: his voice.
Not words. Not yet.
But a sound.
Low. Commanding. Inhuman.
Like a predator calling out to the world, I’m coming.
I stop. Slam a hand over my own mouth.
He’s looking for me.
And something inside me… thrills at that.
I hate it.
I hate that my thighs clench, that my heart pounds not just with fear, but with a rush of something else. Something hotter. Wilder.
Gods, what’s wrong with me?
I press on, crawling now like a rat in a maze. My father’s voice rings in my ears—his polished tone soaked in disappointment. “You wouldn’t last a day without protection, Ayla. You think the stars owe you freedom, but they’ll chew you up and spit you out.”
Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?
And I’m not going to die like some helpless debutante in a ballgown.
I’m going to live, damn it.
I drop down another shaft, landing in a crouch in what looks like a utility corridor. Everything here is exposed wiring and metal bulkheads. The luxury has peeled away.
I jog through the hallway, ears straining for every sound. I keep low, pressing to the walls, ducking behind debris when I hear movement.
Finally, I reach the eastward wing—the observation deck I hid in earlier is a shamble of broken glass and warped frames now. The windows shattered during the breach.
But beyond it, at the end of the hall, I see it.
A glowing panel. A reinforced steel door.
The emergency escape pod bay.
I run.
I don’t care about the noise now. If someone hears me, they hear me. This is my shot.
The panel blinks red. Locked.
I snarl and swipe my ID bracelet across the reader. It buzzes. Then—green light.
The door hisses open.
I stumble inside.
The pods are intact. Six of them. Sleek, fast, small. Designed to shoot a diplomat or a noble to safety in seconds. Untouchable. Unless…
Unless someone follows.
I bolt toward the farthest one. The interface wakes up, chirping as it scans for pilot verification.
Then—footsteps.
Not loud.
Heavy.
I spin.
The door’s still open.
But the hallway?
Empty.
The escape pods aren’t far. I have to keep moving…and hope the hall is as empty as it looks.
I take one step out. Another. Each movement deliberate, silent, like my bones might betray me with a creak.
The sound of destruction still thunders in the distance—screams, metal tearing, the low thrum of the Relentless still latched to our hull.
I edge closer to the pod interface, barely daring to breathe.
Fingers shaking, I touch the console. The screen flares to life, cool blue glow washing over my skin.
A whisper of sound behind me.
I freeze.
A shadow shifts on the reflective surface of the pod's hatch. Not a trick of the light.
I spin, heart in my throat.
He’s there.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. He fills the entrance like a living monolith—seven feet of violence sculpted into male form.
Jet-black skin that gleams like polished obsidian, wicked white spurs jutting from his shoulders and arms. His long white hair ripples with the motionless tension around him. His eyes…
Those goddamn eyes.
Red, burning with something deeper than hunger. Not lust. Not yet.
Possession.
He’s breathing like he’s just finished running through a warzone—but his chest barely moves. It’s the heat radiating off him that hits me first. His presence presses down on me like a hand, firm and unyielding, even though he hasn't taken a single step.
I don’t move. Can’t.
The air between us crackles.
His gaze devours me.
“Magnificent,” he growls, and the word slides over me like smoke—dark, hot, impossible to catch. “Worthy prey.”
My knees nearly give.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I should be screaming. Scratching. Bolting for the pod again. But instead, my body sings with the praise like he’s feeding it straight into my nervous system.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper to myself, mouth dry. “Don’t—”
He steps forward.
One step.
I take a shaky breath. I can smell him now—clean metal, scorched ozone, and something darker. Musk and adrenaline. I swear it rolls over my skin like he’s already touched me.
He hasn’t. Not yet.
But he doesn’t need to.
I feel owned and he hasn’t laid a finger on me.
He lifts something from his belt—slim, black, coiled. It clicks.
A collar.
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” I whisper, voice trembling.
He cocks his head. “You ran. You fought. You kicked me in the balls.”
Despite everything, his lips curl in admiration. “You earned this.”
He steps closer. I try to dart sideways—his arm is there first. Not touching me, but blocking my exit like a wall.
“You’re going to regret this,” I breathe.
“Unlikely.”
He brings the collar up.
I should resist. Should slap it away. Should scream or throw a punch.
I don’t.
I freeze, trembling in a way that has nothing to do with fear. When the leather touches my throat—soft, but firm—I gasp.
It’s too tight. Then it isn’t. Like it knows me. Like he knows me.
The clasp clicks.
The sound echoes like a gunshot inside my head.
My breath catches. My skin tingles. My legs feel weak.
I can’t decide if I want to run or melt.
“This—this is insane,” I whisper, fingers curling around the leash hanging from the collar. I pull—feebly. “You can’t just—”
“I can.” His voice is a snarl dipped in honey. “And I did.”
“You’re insane,” I say again. “You can’t just put a collar on someone and call it a day.”
He steps in, close enough I can feel the heat radiating off his chest. “It’s not just a collar. It’s a warning.”
My mouth opens, but no words come.
“To them,” he continues, eyes dark with something primal. “Now they’ll know not to touch what’s mine.”
Mine?
My brain short-circuits.
If someone in my family had said that—if some snotty noble suitor had dared—it would’ve set my blood on fire with rage.
But this?
This doesn’t feel like ownership.
It feels like protection. Like fury carved into a vow.
I should scream at him.
I should.
Instead, I test the leash again, half-hearted. I tug it, more curious than angry, and he jerks it back—just a little. Just enough to remind me who’s holding it.
I shudder.
He watches every twitch of my body like he’s memorizing me in real time.
“You don’t know what I am,” I manage to say, quieter this time.
“No,” he agrees. “But I will.”
The hallway groans again with noise—someone else coming.
He doesn’t waste time. He coils the leash once around his hand and tugs. I stumble forward, right into him. His body’s a wall of heat and armor. My breath hitches.
“I can walk,” I snap, trying to find my dignity in the ashes.
He gives me a look—sharp, unreadable.
“Good.”
He turns, dragging me behind him, but not like a slave.
Like something rare. Priceless.
His.
“Kallus.”
“Ayla, jerk.”
This alien has the utmost audacity.