Page 3 of Bonded to the Star-Beast (Xylos Mates #1)

T he shriek is high-pitched, electronic, and utterly alien to this world. It slices through the oppressive quiet of the night, a violation of the natural order I've so carefully observed.

My alarm.

My eyes snap open. For a split second, I'm back in my sterile lab at the ESD annex, the sound just a drill notification. Then the damp, minty air of Xylos fills my lungs, and the reality of my situation crashes back down. I'm not in a lab. I'm in a makeshift tomb, and something is outside.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Tachycardia. Adrenaline response initiated. I push the clinical thought away. It's not a specimen's reaction; it's mine.

I crawl silently to the salvaged monitor, my good hand clutching the energy blaster.

The screen, a small circle of relative safety, shows the perimeter I established.

The blips from before are no longer distant flickers.

They are solid, pulsing icons of red, and they are inside my alarm's radius. Three of them. No, four.

They're circling.

Not random wandering. Coordinated movement. A pack.

I risk a peek through a small gap in my metal wall. The red dwarf star casts a bloody, weak light over the clearing, but the planet's own bioluminescence provides a ghostly, purple-and-green illumination. It's in this shifting, ethereal light that I see the first one.

It's magnificent. And terrifying.

Larger than a Terran wolf, sleeker than a panther, its body is a fluid construction of muscle that ripples under dark, mottled fur.

It moves with a low-slung, predatory grace that is utterly hypnotic.

Its head lifts, sniffing the air, and the true alienness of its physiology hits me.

It has six eyes, arranged in two triangular clusters, glowing with a soft, internal amber light.

They blink independently, giving it a panoramic, unnerving field of vision.

Its jaw is... segmented. Not a single mandible, but two interlocking pieces that suggest a wider, more devastating bite.

Species designation: Xylo-form Lupus-Panthera. Preliminary observation: hex-ocular, bi-mandibular. Pack hunter. Apex... no, not apex. Not after that roar.

The creature takes another step, and a second one melts out of the shadows to its left. Then a third to its right. The fourth hangs back, near the treeline. Flanking maneuver. They're intelligent. They're using strategy.

They're herding me.

My breath catches in my throat. I am a specimen, pinned on a slide for their observation.

They test the perimeter of my camp, their six-eyed gaze taking in the crude walls, the smoking wreck of the pod.

One of them lets out a low, chuffing sound, a series of clicks and guttural notes.

The others respond in kind. Communication.

They're discussing the best way to open this strange, metallic shell and get to the soft meat inside.

They're not just hungry. They're curious. That's worse. Hunger can be sated. Curiosity needs to be... satisfied.

I back away from the gap, pressing myself against the cold hull of the pod.

My meticulously constructed routine, the scientific detachment that has been my shield for the past two cycles, shatters like glass.

This is no longer a research problem. This is a survival equation, and I am the only variable that matters.

The first predator, the one I assume is the alpha, approaches the wall.

It nudges one of the jagged metal plates with its snout, then rears back, hissing as it cuts itself.

A thin line of dark, viscous fluid wells up on its nose.

It shakes its head, the amber eyes blinking rapidly, focusing on the shelter with renewed intensity.

It's not just curious anymore. Now it's angry.

It lets out a sharp, barking call. The others close in.

Time to stop observing and start reacting, Kendra.

My hands, slick with sweat, move with a desperate purpose. I'd spent the last precious hours of daylight preparing for this. It was a long shot, a half-baked theory based on incomplete data, but it was all I had.

I grab the ceramic container from my salvaged medkit.

Inside is a thick, volatile paste I rendered from the sap of Specimen 017, a plant with a nasty habit of bursting into flame when its seed pods are crushed.

The reaction is exothermic and surprisingly energetic.

Beside it is the salvaged ignition unit from the pod's emergency flare system.

I've jury-rigged it to a long, insulated rod from the landing strut assembly.

A makeshift torch. A prayer made of xenobotany and scavenged tech.

A heavy thud against the metal wall makes me jump. A claw scrapes down the panel, a sound like nails on a chalkboard that sets my teeth on edge. They're testing the structure, looking for a weak point.

Okay. Focus. Predator psychology. They're intelligent, but they're still animals. Fire is a primal deterrent. A universal symbol for 'stay the hell away.' It signifies a power they don't understand.

I smear the thick, sticky paste onto the head of the insulated rod. The paste has a sharp, astringent smell that makes my eyes water.

Another thud, harder this time. The wall groans. A small gap widens near the base. I see a segmented snout push through, sniffing, six amber eyes peering into the darkness of my shelter.

It sees me.

My heart slams against my ribs, a painful, frantic beat. Fight-or-flight response fully engaged. Adrenaline flooding the system. Pupils dilated. Respiration rate... critical. I am documenting my own terror. The thought is so absurd I almost laugh.

I grip the torch in my good hand, the ignition switch cold and unfamiliar under my thumb. With my other hand, I hold the blaster, its uselessness a heavy weight. Five shots. Against a pack of four. The math is not in my favor.

The creature at the gap lets out a low growl, a rumble of anticipation. It pulls its head back and then lunges, its full weight hitting the weakened panel. The metal shrieks and buckles inward.

Now.

I press the ignition switch.

A shower of sparks erupts from the unit, hitting the paste. For a terrifying second, nothing happens. Misfire. Compound inert. I'm dead. Then, with a loud whoosh , the paste ignites.

A ball of brilliant, white-hot flame blossoms at the end of the rod, pushing back the darkness, casting my shelter in a stark, flickering light. The heat is intense, blistering.

The creature at the breach recoils with a screech of pain and surprise, its fur singed. It stumbles back, shaking its head, the amber eyes wide with confusion and fear.

It worked. My God, it actually worked.

I scramble forward, shoving the burning torch through the buckled opening. The flame roars, a miniature sun in the alien night. I wave it back and forth, creating a wall of fire and noise.

“Get back!” I scream, my voice raw. “Get the hell away from me!”

The other creatures, who had been pressing against the walls, now retreat, their chuffing calls turning to yelps of alarm. They've never seen fire like this. It's not part of their world. It's my magic. My science.

I stand in the breach, a lone, terrified human holding back the night with a stick.

My arm aches from the weight of the torch.

The heat is scorching my face. But I hold my ground.

I meet the alpha's six-eyed stare, refusing to look away.

Don't show fear. Establish dominance. You are not prey. You are a threat.

The alpha circles, staying just beyond the reach of the flames.

It growls, a low, frustrated sound. The other pack members mirror its movements, their bodies tense, their amber eyes fixed on the impossible, dancing light.

They are confused. Their coordinated strategy is broken, their confidence shattered by this new, terrifying element.

I take a step forward, thrusting the torch out again. The alpha flinches back.

I have them. I actually have them on the defensive.

A wave of heady, irrational confidence washes over me. My scientific training and my primal survival instincts have merged into something new, something fierce. I am not just Dr. Kendra Miles anymore. I am a creature of this world, too, a creature fighting for its territory.

“Log entry, supplemental,” I pant, my voice tight, my words for myself alone. “Defensive strategy effective. Subject Xylo-form Lupus-Panthera displays significant neophobia. Aversive reaction to controlled combustion is confirmed. This gives me a tactical advantage.”

The alpha lets out another frustrated bark and takes a hesitant step forward. The others follow its lead, fanning out, testing my defenses again. They are learning. Adapting. The fear is receding, replaced by a calculating intelligence.

My torch sputters.

The volatile compound is burning out faster than I anticipated. The brilliant white flame shrinks to a flickering, sickly orange.

Oh no. Not now. Please, not now.

The alpha sees it. Its head lifts, the amber eyes narrowing. It lets out a low, guttural sound, not of fear, but of realization. My magic is failing.

It crouches low, muscles coiling. The other three spread out, their movements once again a coordinated, deadly dance. They're preparing for the final rush. My makeshift wall will not hold. The blaster is a pathetic last resort.

My heart sinks. The brief surge of confidence evaporates, leaving only the cold, hard certainty of my own impending death. I am out of time. Out of tricks.

The alpha lunges.

And then the world shakes.

It's not a sound. It's a physical force, a pressure wave that slams into my chest and makes the very air vibrate. A roar. A roar so deep, so powerful, it feels like the planet itself is screaming. It's a sound of absolute, primal authority. A sound of a god clearing its throat.

I stumble back, dropping the sputtering torch. The sound rips through me, bypassing my ears and sinking straight into my bones. It's a sound that unravels every instinct, every bit of training, and leaves only one, primal command: submit .

The effect on the predators is instantaneous and absolute.

The lunging alpha slams to a halt, its body skidding in the dirt.

It flattens itself to the ground, whimpering, its six eyes wide with pure, unadulterated terror.

The other pack members do the same, collapsing as if their legs have been cut out from under them.

They press their bodies into the damp earth, their segmented jaws working silently, their confident aggression completely erased.

The roar echoes again, slightly less powerful this time, but still carrying that same, bone-shaking weight of command.

That's all it takes.

The predators scramble to their feet, not to attack, but to flee. They turn and bolt into the forest, crashing through the undergrowth in a blind panic, their terrified yelps fading into the distance.

Then, silence.

A silence more profound, more terrifying than the noise that preceded it. The clearing is empty. The threat is gone.

I am alive.

For a long time, I just stand there, shaking. My body is a wreck of trembling muscles and frayed nerves. The adrenaline crashes, leaving me weak and nauseous. I sag against the buckled wall of my shelter, my legs giving out.

What was that?

I slide to the ground, my back against the cold metal. My scientific mind, battered and bruised, slowly reboots.

Acoustic event. High amplitude, low frequency. Source: distant. Effect: immediate flight response in local predator species.

But that clinical description is a lie. It was more than a sound. It was a statement. It was a declaration of power that established an entire ecological hierarchy in a single, terrifying moment.

Those creatures, so intelligent, so deadly, were nothing more than frightened scavengers in the presence of whatever made that sound. They weren't the apex predators of this forest. They were middle management.

And I have no idea what sits at the top of the food chain.

A new kind of fear takes root in my chest, colder and deeper than the panic of the attack. It's the fear of the unknown, of a power so immense it can command terror with its voice alone.

I force myself to my feet, my movements clumsy and robotic. I have to be rational. I have to adapt. My survival strategy is obsolete. It was based on the assumption that I was dealing with predictable, understandable threats. I was wrong.

I spend the rest of the night reinforcing my defenses, my hands raw, my body screaming with exhaustion.

I drag more heavy panels into place, sealing the breach.

I double-check the perimeter alarm, recalibrating its sensitivity.

I ration my remaining energy blaster pack, knowing it's a pitiful defense against.. . whatever is out there.

The clear, present danger of the pack attack has done something to me.

It has broken down the wall I built between Dr. Kendra Miles, the scientist, and Kendra, the terrified woman alone on an alien world.

The two are now one and the same. My scientific curiosity is no longer a detached, professional pursuit.

It is a tool for survival, a way to understand the things that want to kill me.

I retrieve my log recorder. Its tiny green light is no longer comforting. It feels... inadequate. I activate the audio playback, isolating the recording of the roar. I run a quick acoustic analysis on my wrist-comp, its small screen displaying the sound wave.

“Log entry, cycle two, post-incident,” I say, my voice a strained whisper.

“Encounter with predator pack terminated by intervention of an unknown biological entity. Auditory signature suggests a creature of immense size and lung capacity. Frequency is subsonic at its lowest range, creating psycho-acoustic effects. Correlation with seismic sensors... inconclusive. Further data is required.”

I listen to the recording again, the sound tinny and small through the tiny speaker, a pale imitation of the reality. It's not enough. The data is not enough.

I am a scientist on a world of gods and monsters, armed with a multi-tool and a handful of theories.

I look out through the gap in my wall, into the dark, silent forest. It is no longer a place of scientific wonder. It is a kingdom. And I have just been made aware that I am trespassing.

My place in the food chain of Xylos has just been brutally, irrevocably defined.

I am at the very, very bottom.