Page 97 of Monsters in Love: Lost in the Stars

Veyrith

She does not wake all at once.

It is a slow thing—an unraveling. Like petals opening toward the stars.

I watch as her body adjusts to consciousness, her fingers curling weakly against the sheets, her lashes fluttering, her breath deepening. Her lips part, as if she means to speak, but no words come. Not yet.

The stasis fog still holds her in its grip.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, my claws loose against my knees. Waiting.

I am not a patient male. But for her, I will wait.

The soft glow of the ship’s lights reflects against the delicate curve of her throat, illuminating the hollow at its base. Her skin is so pale against my dark sheets. So fragile.

I was not made for fragile things.

I am a hunter, a predator, a collector of debts no one else can claim. I do not keep things. I do not crave things.

And yet.

She shifts again, her body betraying her mind, seeking comfort even in sleep. She turns slightly, her thigh brushing against my knee where I sit.

A mistake.

A growl curls low in my throat before I can stop it—soft, guttural, instinctual.

Her body reacts to the sound, her breath stuttering, her lips twitching in some unconscious response. The scent of her changes, something warmer, something laced with the first hints of awareness.

My tail coils tight behind me, the slow flick betraying my agitation.

What is she to me?

A human. A prize. An offering given in place of debt.

She should mean nothing.

And yet, something deep within me refuses to let her go.

Possession settles into my bones, unfamiliar but absolute. I do not know her name. I do not know where she came from. I do not know who cast her into the void, alone and unclaimed.

But none of it matters.

Because she is mine now.

Mine to wake.

Mine to keep.

Mine to have in truth.

Her breathing shifts, her fingers twitching once more. This time, her lashes part just enough for me to glimpse the first slivers of her eyes. She is waking.

And I will be the first thing she sees.

I move without thinking.

A single touch.

My claws should be too rough, my hands too large, but I do not press down. I simply trace the back of my knuckles over her fingers, the lightest possible contact—just enough to let her know she is not alone.

And yet, it shatters the last remnants of her sleep.

She jerks violently, a sharp inhale rattling her chest as her body goes rigid. Her pulse spikes—I can hear it, a frantic staccato beneath her delicate skin.

Fear.

Her eyes snap open, and the moment her gaze locks onto mine, her lips part in a broken, desperate sound—a raw exhale, a caught breath on the verge of a scream.

I react before the sound can fully form, my hand shifting. I do the only thing I know—the only thing I have learned of human females.

I touch her where she is most sensitive.

My fingers slide between her legs, pressing against the soft heat hidden beneath the thin fabric she wears. Gentle. Measured.

I have heard— have been told —that this is how they are calmed. That this is pleasure, and pleasure soothes fear.

But instead of melting, instead of softening against me like I have seen others do, she writhes away as if burned.

Her movements are erratic, her breath sharp and uneven. I chase her reflexively, confused by the rejection, trying to match her shifting form, trying to find the rhythm that should bring her peace.

But she won’t stay still.

Her legs twist, kicking at the sheets, her hands pushing weakly against my arm. I barely feel the pressure. She is still disoriented, still sluggish from the stasis fog, but her panic flares through her like wildfire.

A new noise escapes her throat—not pleasure. Not relief.

Fear.

I freeze.

Something in me goes still, recognition slicing through me like a serrated blade.

She is not calming. She is not yielding. She is afraid.

The realization makes my blood thunder in my ears.

I have miscalculated.

I retract my touch immediately, pulling my hand back to my own thigh. I do not move further, do not chase her as she scoots backward, her body shaking, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

She looks wild.

Her eyes are clouded, unseeing, yet her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted, her hands braced behind her on the bed as she scrambles to put space between us.

I should tell her she is safe. That I mean no harm. That I was merely…

What?

What would I tell her? That I thought I was soothing her? That I believed touching her between her legs would settle her fear like a practiced ritual?

That I thought this was how it was done?

I do not have the words.

So I wait.

I keep myself still, my tail coiling loosely beside me, my hands where she can see them.

She will not understand my words. Not yet. But my meaning is clear.

I will not touch you again.

But I will not let you go.

Her breath shudders, her fingers curling into the sheets until they relax once more.

She grows weary once more, her survival response draining whatever energy she had left in reserve from the cryosleep.

Her eyelids close.

I grip my knees to keep from fussing with her, to make sure she hasn’t died. But no, I hear her heart beat, slow but there.

I don’t have the the supplies needed to check her vitals on board my ship, but the Qal’Vuun would.

They have a full black market clinic where they give and take life in kind. They will see to her if they wish to continue living.

Then, I will make her understand.

She is mine.

And I do not give up what is mine.

I tap a command into my wrist unit, activating the comms. “One of you. Now.”

The response is swift, as it should be. I meet Muurith at the entrance of my ship and lead them inside to my private quarters. Twice in one hour has someone other than me been inside here.

I shift my weight slightly, exhaling through my nose. “She needs medical care. But first I need a sedative. I do not want her wakened in transport.”

Muurith bobs their head, a flickering ombré of color shimmers over their form. “Yes,” they murmur, their voice smooth, practiced. “She does not yet know what you are to her.”

I stiffen slightly. What I am to her? “Explain your meaning.”

“She is yours now. But we suspect it is more than simply payment.” Their gaze returns to me. “She carries part of your soul? Your heart fire?”

“My—” I snap my mouth closed with a clack. How did this one know about such things, especially since I should have known first? As a Drakoryn, I should know my own customs.

My heart’s fire.

An answering flare of heat as if I swallowed my ship’s engine bloomed in my chest. It started as a quiet ember before erupting into a blaze within me.

I flex my claws. “I need to know how to soothe her. When she stirred just now, she felt fear.”

The Qal’vuun tilts their head. “She looked upon you?”

I pause. “Her eyelids fluttered, perhaps even opened, yet I do not believe she had been able to truly see me.”

They nodded, as if confirming a previous bias. “Ah, that makes more sense. If she had been able to gaze upon you truly, she would not have felt this fear. Please, as part of our agreement, we can show you how to soothe your human.”

A sharp, immediate growl rumbles from my chest before I can stop it. Muurith stills.

I rise slowly, my body casting a long shadow over both of them. The growl fades into a soft, guttural snarl, my lips curling over my fangs. “No one touches her.”

The handler does not argue. They incline their head slightly, as if they expected this. “Then we will direct you. But first… do you have restraints?”

The heat of warning flickers through my veins. My tail lashes once. “She is not a prisoner.”

The handler is unmoved. “She is frightened. And for her own good, she must not hurt herself. You are strong. She is not. If she thrashes, she will bruise, she will cut herself against your claws, she will struggle until her own panic overwhelms her. Do you want that?”

My jaw clenches.

They wait, as if they already know my answer.

Restraints.

I do not use them often. My enemies are either dead or too terrified to move. But for her, I understand the reasoning.

She is not an enemy. She is not meant to fear me.

I tap another command into my wrist unit. The ship responds, activating the binding cuffs hidden in the bed frame. Thin bands of reinforced fiber slide out, designed to secure without harming.

I hear the hitch in her breath as she realizes what is happening.

“Calmly,” the handler warns. “Approach her calmly.”

I move slow, stepping toward the bed. Her body tenses, her hands clutching at the sheets.

She can feel my intent.

I am not hunting her. Not now.

But she is still trapped. Still watching for an escape.

I lower to my knees beside the bed, keeping my movements fluid, steady.

The handler nods slightly. “Good. Now speak to her.”

I do.

I say her name.

Not prey. Not human.

Her name.

Her pulse stutters.

I reach for her wrist. The restraints wait just beyond my touch, ready to coil. But I do not force her down. I let her see the choice before her.

A test.

She can fight. She can scream.

Or she can let me hold her.

The moment stretches.

And then…

Her fingers twitch beneath mine.

I feel it—that single, hesitant moment of uncertainty—and it is enough.

The restraints coil around her wrists, securing her gently.

Not to hold her down. Not to punish.

To keep her safe.

To keep her mine.

The handler watches. “Now, soothe her.”

I exhale slowly, my talons curling against my palms.

And I begin.