Page 15

CHAPTER 15

T he room was an operating theater. That was the first thing that struck her—how unnaturally clean everything was. Too bright. Too precise. No shadows. No seams. No flaws. Just blinding white walls and gleaming floors that turned her skin to something pale and foreign. She felt flayed open by the light, laid bare without even having to remove her clothes.

Kyhin stepped to the side, graceful as always, his movements disturbingly fluid for someone so massive. His six-fingered hand swept in a silent command toward the center of the chamber.

She followed the motion.

A recessed alcove gleamed at the far end. Mist drifted lazily from invisible vents, curling like ghostly fingers in the air. Drops of water clung to smooth vertical panels—silver on silver. There were no taps, no nozzles. Just a strange, metallic beauty. Minimal. Alien. Clinical.

A shower.

Her stomach dropped.

Then, his gaze. Sharp. Direct.

And the motion of his hand.

Down.

No words. No need for them.

Undress.

Something in her snapped.

Her arms clamped around herself with a jerk, breath punching out of her lungs. “Are you serious ?”

He didn’t respond.

“Absolutely not.” Her voice was louder than she intended—raw, furious, scraping. “I’m not doing this.”

His head tilted—just a fraction—but it felt like a slap. Like he couldn’t comprehend why she was resisting. As if her refusal was a variable outside the scope of his programming. Or maybe he did understand—and just didn’t care .

“I said no,” she bit out, more forcefully this time, her fingers digging into her arms. “No. No. I don’t know what kind of sick expectation you’ve got in that shiny death-head of yours, but I’m not your plaything. You can’t just—gesture at me like I’m a damn doll and expect me to drop my clothes.”

Behind him, his wings gave a faint twitch.

And then he stepped toward her.

Sylvia’s mouth went dry. Her limbs vibrated with panic, but she didn’t back away this time.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” she spat, trembling. “Is that what this is? You loom a little, and I’ll fold like one of your pretty little acquisitions? You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

He said nothing.

He just kept walking.

One step. Then another. Slow. Intentional.

Her heart pounded like it was trying to escape her chest. Rage boiled beneath her skin, hot and dizzying. Not fear— fury . She hated how quiet he was. How untouchable. How unreadable beneath that dark, faceless armor. She couldn’t see his expression. Couldn’t measure anything. Couldn’t find a single crack in the wall he presented to her.

It made her want to scream.

“Show me your face ,” she snapped, breath ragged. “If you’re going to humiliate me like this, at least have the decency to look me in the eye while you do it.”

Still no answer.

The air shifted as he closed the final distance. He stopped just short of her—close enough for her to feel the quiet hum of his presence, close enough to drown in it.

Her entire body shook. Adrenaline surged. Her throat ached from holding back the scream rising inside her.

She glared at him. Defiant. Unmoving. “You don’t get to have all the power here.”

But she knew— felt —how precarious that claim was.

Because she hadn’t run. She hadn’t fought. And the collar still sat warm and snug against her throat, betraying her.

He hadn’t touched her.

He hadn’t forced her.

And somehow, that made it worse.

He was waiting.

Not for permission.

For her to break.

Her eyes burned. Her body ached. And still, she stood there, clothed, furious, exposed in ways she hadn’t known were possible.

She was still herself.

But that self was fraying.

And he knew it.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t even breathe , as far as she could tell.

He just stood there, massive and silent, like a black statue dropped from some alien god’s war altar.

Sylvia’s chest heaved. Her throat burned. The words she’d hurled at him only moments ago still echoed in her ears—useless, desperate noise. None of it had made a dent in him.

Not even a twitch.

He watched her, unreadable, faceless behind that obsidian armor and full-face helm. She couldn’t see his eyes. Couldn’t see anything human, anything soft. Just the brutal geometry of his body, the impossible bulk of him, the armored plates that shimmered faintly under the too-bright lights.

She wanted him to do something . To say something . Even a command would be better than this awful, consuming silence .

But he didn’t.

He just waited.

And somehow, that was worse.

Sylvia clenched her fists so tightly her nails bit into her palms. Her whole body trembled with adrenaline, with rage, with raw, chaotic sorrow. She wanted to scream again, to shove him, to claw at that armor until she saw something real underneath.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Because even without a word, even without movement, he gave off a message clearer than anything spoken:

If you touch me, I will split you in half.

The thought wasn’t metaphorical.

It was a truth. A fact. A law of nature, like gravity or fire. He didn’t need to threaten her. His presence was the threat.

And yet… he let her rage. Let her burn. Let her unravel in front of him.

As if he knew she needed it.

As if that, too, was part of his plan.

Her voice cracked as she stumbled through more furious words, barely intelligible through tears. She cursed at him, at the room, at the collar around her throat, at the entire galaxy that had stolen her life away. She told him everything. That she was from Cronulla. That she’d managed a restaurant. That she had a mum in a nursing home, a dad who still remembered her name on good days, two older brothers who would kill anyone who hurt her.

She said it all, knowing he couldn’t understand a word.

Maybe that made it easier.

Eventually, the words turned into sobs. Ugly, gasping, full-body sobs that she couldn’t control. Her knees buckled slightly, and she caught herself, legs wide, shoulders hunched. She didn’t collapse. But it was close.

And still, he didn’t move.

She hated him.

God, she hated him.

And yet… what she hated more was the aching, bottomless need inside her.

The need to be held . To feel someone . A human body. A human face. Her mum’s perfume. Her brother’s teasing laugh. The smell of salt and suncream and hot asphalt from a Cronulla summer. Her flat. Her car. Her phone. Anything.

She would’ve given anything, in that moment, to feel familiar arms around her.

But all that stood in front of her was a wall of alien armor.

Cold. Unflinching. Terrible.

He watched her the way one might watch a weather system—observing the storm, waiting for the eye to pass.

And finally, it did.

Her breath came shallow. Her body sagged.

She was spent.

She didn’t look up when he moved.

But she felt it.

The soft whir of shifting plates. The whisper of movement across the sterile floor.

She looked up just as he reached her.

Both hands came forward—gloved this time. Black, armored, impersonal.

Not the warm, blue-skinned hand he’d touched her with before. There was no softness now.

He laid both hands gently—almost reverently—on her upper arms.

And even though the pressure was light, the meaning was unmistakable.

If you will not undress yourself… I will.

Her breath caught.

The collar at her throat pulsed with heat—not from the device, but from her own racing blood.

He didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t pull.

He just stood there.

Waiting again.

The message was as clear as sunlight through glass.

There was still a choice.

But not for much longer.