Page 16 of Bonded to the Star-Beast (Xylos Mates #1)

I am a ghost. A phantom haunting the edges of a life that was never mine to begin with.

The small pack on my back feels impossibly heavy, weighted not by the salvaged scientific equipment inside, but by the finality of this departure.

Kyra presses a small, tightly wrapped bundle into my hands.

It contains nutrient paste, a water filter, and a small coil of high-tensile wire. Survival basics. An apology.

“This is a mistake, Kendra,” she whispers, her amber eyes wide with a fear that is entirely for me. “The Borderlands are not safe for a human alone. Vex's faction... they will not see your departure as a victory. They will see it as an opportunity.”

“It's a bigger mistake to stay,” I reply, my voice a low, steady thing that doesn't betray the tremor in my hands. “A cage is a cage, Kyra, no matter how much protection it offers.”

“Jaro would not let them harm you.”

“Jaro would have let them bind me,” I counter, and the sharpness in my tone makes her flinch. I soften my voice, my anger not meant for her. She is the only one who has shown me kindness, a single point of light in this oppressive, patriarchal darkness. “He made his choice. This is mine.”

She nods, a gesture of defeat. “The bond... it will not tolerate this separation. The legends are clear. It will cause you both great pain.”

Pain is a known variable. Subjugation is an unacceptable outcome. I adjust the strap of my pack. “I'm a scientist, Kyra. I deal in observable phenomena. Pain is a neurological response. I can manage it.”

She looks at me with such profound sadness that it almost breaks through my carefully constructed wall of resolve. She sees the lie. She knows this bond is more than just synapses firing. The persistent, dull ache in my chest is a testament to that.

“Take this,” she says, pressing another object into my hand. It's a small, flat disc. A perimeter alarm from my own pod, reconfigured to work with a local energy source. “It will give you some warning, at least.”

“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate. She has risked the elders' disapproval, perhaps even her brother's anger, to give me this small chance.

I turn to go, but she catches my arm. “He did not want this, Kendra. He thought... he thought he was choosing the only path that would keep you alive and accepted.”

“There's a difference between being accepted and being assimilated,” I say softly. “He doesn't understand that. Maybe he never will.”

I walk away from her, away from the relative safety of Jaro's dwelling, and into the heart of the storm.

The entire tribe of Vara-Ka seems to be watching my exodus.

Their gazes are a physical force, a mixture of contempt, pity, and raw curiosity.

I feel like a specimen under a microscope.

Observe the foreign organism rejecting the tribal ecosystem.

Note its solitary, self-destructive behavior.

I see them, Jaro's supporters, their faces etched with concern.

They see this as a failure of his leadership.

And I see Vex's faction, their expressions alight with smug triumph.

A group of his warriors stands near the main gate, their arms crossed, their gazes lingering on me with a predatory chill that has nothing to do with the heart-bond.

They don't just see a political problem leaving; they see prey.

And then I see Jaro.

He stands alone, just inside the great, plant-woven gate, making no move to stop me.

His face is an unreadable mask of stone, but I feel him.

Our bond is a taut wire stretched between us, vibrating with his pain, his fury, his profound, gut-wrenching conflict.

The mark on my chest burns, a phantom heat that mirrors the agony I see in his amber eyes.

He is honoring my choice, and it is killing him. It is killing us both.

I hold his gaze for a long, silent moment, a final, unspoken battle of wills. Then I turn my back on him, on Vara-Ka, on the life of protected captivity they offered me, and walk into the wilderness.

The forest welcomes me with an indifferent silence. For the first few hours, I move on pure adrenaline, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the settlement. I don't look back. I can't.

I follow a stream, moving downstream, my boots sinking into the damp, mossy earth. The memory of my last solo trek through these woods is a constant, humbling companion. This time, I am more careful. I have better equipment. I have more knowledge.

I also have an aching void in my chest that feels like a vital organ has been scooped out.

It's a psychosomatic response, I tell myself, my internal monologue defaulting to clinical analysis.

It's my only defense. The trauma of the ceremony, coupled with the stress of the escape, is manifesting as physical discomfort.

The bond is a biological anomaly, yes, but its effects are likely amplified by psychological factors.

I keep walking until the twin suns are high in the sky, their light filtering through the dense, alien canopy in strange, shifting patterns.

I finally select a suitable location for a camp: a small, defensible alcove in a rock face, hidden from the main stream by a thicket of purple-leafed ferns, with a clear water source nearby.

The work of setting up camp is a welcome distraction.

I deploy the perimeter alarm Kyra gave me, its low hum a comforting, technological sound in the primal wilderness.

I start a fire, purify water, and methodically lay out my salvaged equipment.

My datapad. The portable resonance imager.

The molecular analyzer. My tools. My identity.

I am Dr. Kendra Miles, I think, the words a desperate affirmation. I am a scientist. My purpose is to observe, to analyze, to understand. This... this is just unscheduled, long-term fieldwork.

I spend the rest of the day immersed in my work.

It's my shield, my fortress. I collect plant samples, carefully documenting their properties.

I run diagnostics on my damaged long-range comms unit, a futile but necessary ritual.

I try to map the local area, noting geological formations and potential resource locations.

I do everything I can to ignore the persistent, rhythmic thrumming in my chest. It's a constant, low-level ache, a physical reminder of the man I left behind. When I close my eyes, I see his face, the raw pain in his eyes as I walked away.

Stop it. Focus on the data. The subject is Xylosian flora, not Xylosian feelings.

The first night is the hardest. The forest comes alive with sounds I am only beginning to identify. I sit by my fire, the datapad on my lap, trying to analyze the spectral data from a new species of bioluminescent moss. But my focus keeps splintering.

The ache in my chest sharpens. It's no longer a dull thrum but a distinct, pulling sensation, as if an invisible cord is being tugged from afar. I press my hand against the bond-mark, the skin unnaturally warm.

What is happening back there? Is he in a council meeting? Is Vex challenging him now?

The questions are a pointless exercise in speculation, but I can't stop them.

I picture Jaro standing before the elders, his jaw tight with defiance.

I can almost feel the weight of their judgment, the sting of Vex's accusations.

The feeling is so vivid, so real, that I have to remind myself it's just my imagination, my own anxiety projected onto him.

Or is it? Empathic transference is a documented phenomenon in some species with hive-mind or telepathic capabilities. Is this bond a form of rudimentary biological telepathy? The physiological markers are certainly present.

I try to sleep, but my dreams are a chaotic torrent of shared sensations.

I am running through the forest, not on two legs, but on four.

The world is a symphony of scents, the ground a living map beneath my paws.

I feel the power of the beast, the primal joy of the hunt, the territorial rage at an unseen threat.

And woven through it all is a profound, aching loneliness. A sense of a missing piece. Me.

I wake with a gasp, my heart pounding, the scent of Jaro's musk phantom in the air. The bond-mark on my chest is burning. I sit up, drenched in sweat, a wave of disorientation washing over me.

Just a dream. An anxiety-induced hallucination.

But the feeling of his distress lingers, a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

The days that follow blur into a cycle of relentless work and escalating symptoms. The solo survival I thought I was prepared for is becoming a battle against my own physiology.

The planet itself seems to be turning against me.

The atmospheric compounds, the ones that had previously enhanced my senses in a manageable way, are now overwhelming them.

The colors of the forest are so vivid they hurt my eyes.

The low hum of insect life is a deafening roar in my ears.

The scent of a nearby flower is so potent it makes me nauseous.

Sensory overload. A common symptom of exposure to certain neurotoxins. It's possible the stabilizing effect of the bond was mitigating the atmospheric effects. Without Jaro's proximity... my body's adaptive process is failing.

I try to recalibrate, to build new filters for my perception, but it's like trying to dam a flood with my bare hands.

My scientific work suffers. My hands tremble as I try to handle delicate samples.

My notes become increasingly erratic, my clinical observations interspersed with fragmented, emotional outbursts.

[ Log Entry 4.3: Specimen K-11 exhibits remarkable cellular regeneration. Potential applications in trauma medicine are significant. My chest hurts. A constant, grinding ache. Why does it hurt so much? ]

[ Log Entry 4.4: Analysis of water source shows trace elements of an unknown heavy metal. Further study required. I saw him again in my dream. He was fighting. The beast was fighting. I felt the blows. I felt its rage. Was he fighting Vex? ]

The separation sickness is getting worse.

The disorientation comes in waves, leaving me dizzy and weak.

The dreams are no longer just dreams; they are vivid, shared experiences that leave me exhausted and emotionally raw.

I feel his anger, his frustration, his bone-deep loneliness.

It's a constant, invasive presence in my mind, a brutal violation of my mental sovereignty.

And the ache in my chest is a constant companion, a fire that never goes out.

This is not sustainable. At this rate of physiological and psychological decline, my probability of long-term survival is... low.

The thought is clinical, detached, but the fear beneath it is very, very real. I am a scientist on the verge of becoming a failed experiment.

On the fifth cycle since my departure, the planet finally breaks me.

I wake to a world that is screaming. The light of the twin suns is a physical blow, a searing white fire that forces me to squeeze my eyes shut. The sound of the stream is a deafening waterfall. Every scent is a chemical assault. My own skin feels alien, my nerves raw and exposed.

System failure. Complete sensory overload. The atmospheric neurotoxins have reached a critical concentration in my system.

I stumble out of my shelter, my limbs heavy and uncoordinated. I need to check my equipment, run a diagnostic, find a rational explanation for what is happening to me. A fever is starting to burn through me, my teeth chattering despite the humid air.

I see him then. His beast form, stalking the edge of my camp. Twelve feet of horned, scaled fury. His golden eyes are fixed on me, burning with a possessive fire. He is here. He has come for me.

No. It's a hallucination. The fever is affecting my visual cortex.

I shake my head, trying to clear the image, but it remains, a terrifyingly solid presence in the wavering, overly-bright landscape.

A storm is rolling in from the mountains. The sky darkens, the wind picks up, whipping through the trees with a mournful howl that mirrors the storm inside my own head.

I need to get back to my shelter. I need my medkit. I need my datapad. I need my data. The data will save me. The data always saves me.

I take a step, and my legs buckle. I fall to my knees in the damp moss, my body wracked with violent shivers. The first drops of rain begin to fall, cold against my burning skin.

The beast in the trees takes a step toward me.

Not real. Not real.

I try to crawl, to drag myself back to the flimsy illusion of safety I have built. But my muscles refuse to obey. My scientific mind, my last line of defense, is dissolving into a chaotic soup of fragmented data and raw, primal fear.

The world tilts, the screaming colors and sounds swirling into a vortex. The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me is a pair of glowing golden eyes, filled with an anguish that feels like my own.

My last coherent thought is not a scientific formula. It is not a survival protocol.

It is a name, whispered on a feverish, broken breath.

Jaro.