Page 39

CHAPTER 39

T he air inside the ship was cold, filled with the faint scent of metal, smoke, and something darker—blood, maybe. Sylvia sat motionless in the pilot’s chair, still wrapped in the furs he’d given her, her body tense, every muscle coiled.

And then, without a word, he removed his helm.

Her breath caught sharply; her lungs forgot how to work.

Nothing could have prepared her for the impact of seeing him like this.

His skin was a rich, deep blue, catching the low light like silk-drenched shadow. His eyes—burning red—glowed with a steady, unsettling intensity. They didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. Long, obsidian-black hair spilled past his shoulders, tousled and windblown, surprisingly soft-looking despite the harshness of everything else about him. And his face was both elegant and brutal. All sharp lines and angles. Too alien. Too striking.

Her gaze fell to the faint parting of his lips, where she saw fangs. Real, gleaming fangs. His nostrils flared again—as if taking in her scent, as if he couldn’t get enough of it, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

He looked like something from a dream—or a nightmare.

Everything about him radiated danger and barely held restraint. Fury simmered just beneath the surface.

His armor—cracked, scorched, still faintly steaming in places—only made him seem more formidable. And yet, he didn’t lunge. Didn’t shout. He just stood there, watching her.

Was he angry? Had she misstepped?

She’d said his name. Maybe too softly. Too personally.

But then, slowly— deliberately —he lifted a hand to his chest and pressed it flat, a gesture that indicated himself . "Kyhin.”

The way he said it—his voice hoarse, cracking slightly—rippled through her like a current. It wasn’t just sound. It was resonance.

Kyhin.

It was a declaration. Of intent. Of familiarity.

It was as she’d hoped.

His name. That’s his name. Kyhin.

He pointed to her.

She blinked, slow to understand.

“Oh,” she breathed, hand rising to mirror his gesture. "Sylvia."

He repeated it: slowly, his deep voice teasing out each syllable. "Sylvia."

The way he said her name: it wasn’t just recognition. It was reverence.

Her skin prickled with awareness. Heat bloomed low in her belly.

The helm clattered to the floor, a final severing of distance.

And then he moved. Slowly. Silently. Like a storm held just at bay.

Each step toward her was deliberate, steady, as if he was giving her a chance to run—or surrender.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Breath caught between her ribs, eyes locked on him, Sylvia braced herself.

Something had shifted.

Standing in the quiet with his broad shoulders rising and falling ever so slightly, he drew in a long breath through his nose, sharp and deep.

His nostrils flared.

His eyes closed.

And a great shudder coursed through him.

It passed through his entire body, a ripple of tension breaking like a wave over stone. For someone who had always carried himself with absolute control—silence, mystery, armor—this sudden, visible vulnerability was staggering.

Sylvia stared, struck by the power of his reaction.

Something shifted between them then—something monumental. They couldn’t communicate with one another in any form of spoken language, but the language of their bodies was undeniable.

His crimson eyes narrowed, glowing faintly as he opened them again. He was still scenting the air, nostrils flaring slightly, a faint tremor rippling through him. It was instinctive, animal. Like a wolf.

A predator.

And suddenly, it struck her. Was this why he wore the mask? To shield himself from her?

Another shiver ran through her. Was it possible that her scent... affected him?

Because he seemed different now. Raw. Unmasked. Still powerful, but more volatile. And something about that change—something about the way he looked at her—sent a thrill up her spine.

He knew her name now, and she had his.

Her body reacted as if it remembered something her mind was still too dazed to fully grasp. The way he’d touched her last night—the way it had undone her… it was imprinted in her memory and onto her body like a searing brand.

Was he going to take it further?

The thought should have scared her, but for some reason, it didn’t.

It felt inevitable. Like standing at the edge of a dream.

This creature—this warrior who had just annihilated a squadron of vicious aliens as if it were nothing—was staring at her like she was the only thing in the Universe.

Tension coursed through her, winding tighter and tighter, mingling with the thrill of anticipation.

This was insanity, but she didn’t care anymore.

She was beyond everything she’d ever known, cut off from her past, her safe, familiar life, and she didn’t know if she could ever return.

All she knew was that this male, this alien … was before her, and right now, he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Hard face, cruel eyes, features so aloof and beautiful he could have been a godlike sculpture, cheekbones so sharp they could cut, skin of pure cerulean blue.

Mythical wings.

Strange, alien armor that both protected him and enhanced his beauty, for the contrast of his vividly-hued skin and striking features against the black, now-damaged surface was otherworldly.

And… he was looking at her with pure, unrestrained hunger, like he wanted to devour her.

He looked like he was on the very edge of control, like he was about to lose it.

Is he going to hurt me?

But even as the question passed through her, she knew the answer.

No.

He wouldn’t. Not her.

That knowledge only made the tension inside her worse. It coiled into desire, sharp and urgent. He wanted her, and something inside her wanted to be wanted like that.

He stepped closer, saying something low and guttural in his native tongue, his voice all gravel and strain and heat.

A strange realization bloomed inside her. She had power here. Over him.

He was fighting himself, and it was because of her.

Her scent. Her presence. Her.

And in a flash of reckless abandon, she acted.

She rose slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. "Come here," she whispered, knowing he wouldn’t understand the words.

But the tone, the meaning… those were unmistakable, surely.

Some things were universal.

That’s when it happened.

Something inside him broke.

The growl that slipped from his throat wasn’t human. It wasn’t gentle.

Taw. Possessive. Unmistakably his.

And then he was on her, scooping her into his arms with a forceful, desperate grace. Holding her tightly to his chest, his strange armor still warm against her skin.

She gasped, clutching at his shoulders as he carried her swiftly through the ship, down dark corridors until a set of doors slid open, then sealed them in.

The room was quiet. Spartan. Cold light filtered in through a narrow window overlooking the snowstorm.

A bed sat in the corner. There were no sheets, no pillows. Just a thin mattress, the kind made for utility, not comfort.

It didn’t matter.

It was enough.

He set her down gently. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, but the furs kept her warm.

Her gaze locked onto his.

The air between them pulsed with heat.

She raised her hand and pressed it lightly to his chest. "Take it off," she said, motioning with her hands. "All of it."

He understood. He had to. Because with a low command, his armor began to retract, just like before—bit by bit, like a living shell, peeling away to reveal the full, impossible truth of him.

And what she saw took her breath away once again, for he was unlike anything she could’ve imagined, and seeing him up close, she couldn’t get enough of him.

She drank him in with her eyes: carved muscle, a form both terrifying and beautiful. Even his wings were bare now: without the deadly layer of metallic armor, and she realized they were covered in soft, leathery feathers, thousands of them.

His wings were folded tightly behind him, as barely restrained as the rest of him.

How magnificent.

How astonishing.

The soft, imperfect realities of Earth felt more distant than ever.

Then… she looked down, and her breath caught— again.

She saw him. All of him.

He was huge. Hard.

And… his cock was covered with small, writhing, tentacle-like protrusions that moved with a strange grace: flexing, waiting.

Oh, god.

Heat surged through her cheeks as she imagined him—his alien hardness— inside her.

She was certain she was beet-red right now. And her mind was white-hot with lust.

With a large, trembling hand, he reached for her face. Brushed his six fingers through her hair, slow and reverent.

Breathed her in.

Once. Twice.

Then, he pressed his forehead to hers.

Whispered something fierce and low in his language.

And then?—

"Sylvia."

Just her name.

A promise, wrapped in reverence and hunger.

And she knew—she was his.

This creature intended to possess her completely.

He always had.

There was no point in fighting it. She could influence him, perhaps, change his mind on small things, gradually convince him that he should treat her the way she wanted to be treated…

But for him to let her go?

To return her to Earth?

That would never happen.

And now, with him standing before her like this…

She wasn’t sure she wanted him to.