Page 7

Becoming One

The first thing Poppy noticed was the warmth. Not heat, not discomfort, but an enveloping tenderness that wrapped around her like a cocoon. Heavy. Present. Familiar in a way she couldn’t understand.

Her mind drifted through the haze, sluggishly trying to stitch together memory and sensation. Something was… different. Her body ached—not in pain, but in an unfamiliar way. As though it had been claimed, reshaped, marked.

She inhaled, and the scent of him filled her lungs.

Her heart stuttered.

Handy.

Awareness sharpened like a blade, her pulse kicking up as she felt him. Not just beside her—but a part of her. As though something deeper than flesh connected them now. The imprint. The bond.

Her breathing hitched as she struggled to lift heavy eyelids. The air shifted beside her, a presence so intense, so completely focused on her, that her body reacted before her mind did.

She turned her head, finding those dark eyes with crimson flecks burning into her.

Handy sat at the edge of the bed, silent, unmoving, watching. Waiting.

Her stomach twisted as her gaze swept over him, drinking in his beauty. She had only seen glimpses before, in the pod and briefly after. He was somehow different now. More awake. Alive. Fully real and aware that he was.

He was breathtaking.

Even in the dim light, his body looked sculpted, perfected. The contrast of human flesh against synthetic creation was…electrifying. Her gaze caught on his left arm, the sleek, black alloy reflecting the faintest slivers of light. The fingers twitched and a small thrill shot through her. Would he touch her with it? Would he let her touch him?

Heat curled through her at the thought, and she forced herself to keep moving, to keep seeing. Her gaze dipped lower, over the broad plane of his chest, the sharply cut ridges of his abdomen. He was designed to be powerful, efficient, deadly—yet all she could think about was how he had felt against her. Inside her.

Her breath stuttered, her lips parting slightly as she swallowed hard.

Her gaze reached his mouth. She had imagined them returning her kiss, imagined them moving over hers, slow and deliberate rather than desperate and consuming.

Now, she wondered what they would feel like when he wasn’t fighting himself.

And then, she finally met his eyes again and found him watching her open inspection. The air between them cracked with tension as the red flecks shimmered and burned within his gaze. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. His jaw was tight, his body taut like a predator caught between attack and restraint.

“Handy,” she whispered, the sound barely there, but enough.

A ripple of tension moved through his frame, his breath drawing slow and deep, as if the sound of her voice had physically hit him.

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then, his lips parted, and his voice came, low, hoarse, almost reverent. “Poppy.”

****

It was a blade to his chest, her voice.

Handy fought to stay still. Fought not to react to his body’s needs, the unbearable pull of the imprint. Demanding he touch. Claim. Take.

She was looking at him—seeing him—and he was caught in a storm of hunger to be seen and fear of what she might see.

Her gaze had traveled over him slowly, tracing the lines of his body, his features. He had studied her curiosity, the way her breath stuttered when she reached his mouth, the way her pulse had jumped when their eyes met.

She should have feared him. Should have recoiled. And she hadn’t. She wanted him. And seeing it turned the storm into something deadlier. His fists clenched against his thighs, his mechanical hand twitching under the sheer need in his system. She was right there. The source of everything inside him that felt real. The soft heat of her skin, the delicate curve of her body, the way her breath still carried the remnants of him.

Mine.

The meaning almost felt like a curse. He had sworn he wouldn’t be a husband. That she would be nothing but a prisoner. But that wasn’t the truth. She wasn’t a prisoner, he was. Bound to her. Caged by her. Ruined by her. She had given him something he could never give back. It wasn’t just the act, it wasn’t just the imprint. It was the way she had taken him. Accepted him, even when he had been lost in his own damnation. When he had only been an echo, a fraction of a man stitched together from the remnants of something else.

Now, he was whole. And it was her fault.

His breathing was sharp, controlled, but it didn’t stop the way his body betrayed him. His muscles were too tight, his nerves too awake. His cock ached, because she was here, because she was his. Because he had already had her once and it would never be enough.

A slow, torturous punishment.

His hand flexed, the synthetic metal making the faintest sound as his fingers curled. No. Not again. Not like that. He suddenly couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Because if he did—the restraint would break. And he would take her the way he needed to.

“Poppy.”

Her body reacted before her mind did, her breath catching. His gaze dropped to the delicate shiver in her throat, the subtle, betraying arch of her spine, wanting to be closer. Wanting him. He clenched his jaw, the war inside him tearing apart reason and restraint. Her need pulsed in her like an unspoken plea. She didn’t understand it yet, but he did. She was aching for him. And he had taken his pleasure from her.

It was only fair to give it back.

His hand trembled as he reached for her, his mechanical fingers hovering just above her skin before he finally let himself touch. The softest graze, trailing down her arm, along the curve of her waist. She shivered, a quiet gasp slipping from her lips.

The way her body responded to him was too much.

He exhaled sharply, lowering himself beside her. He didn’t kiss her—not yet. He just let himself feel her, the way her heat pulled at him, demanded more.

His lips found the column of her throat, slow, deliberate. His tongue flicked against the delicate pulse beating wildly beneath her skin, savoring the way she arched into him. She wanted this, needed it. And he would give it to her. But this time, he would take nothing in return.

He explored her with his brand new fingers, mapping every reaction. He didn’t have to guess what pleasured her. The imprint told him—showed him—let him feel it through her.

He traced slow punishments over her sensitive skin, his touch both cruel and reverent, never quite giving her what she silently begged for.

Poppy whimpered, arching, searching.

His mouth followed the path his fingers had laid down her naked body, his tongue replacing his hand in a slow caress. He took his time learning the delicate terrain of her body, marking every tremor, every delicate sigh, every frantic clutch of her fingers against him. At her breasts, he moved his tongue in slow, torturous strokes, circling, teasing, retreating. He stroked her mouth with his mechanical fingers and used his other to explore her delicate womanhood. The heat in his body pulled deep groans from his chest as he focused his lips and tongue on her taut nipples. She bucked her hips with a gasp when his finger slid inside her, curling, stretching and feeling her.

“Handy,” she gasped, trembling beneath him. Tension coiled tighter and tighter, her body shuddering with frustration, with desperation. He drove her to madness, her reckless begging instantly becoming pure euphoria to his system. There was nothing else in the universe but the slow, unrelenting pleasure he gave her.

His fingers found the precise angle and rapidly pounced against her core. Every inhibition burned away and she arched her body and took two of his mechanical fingers into her mouth, sucking with such a hunger it jolted him with desire.

When she broke, his name was all she knew and her pleasure ripped through him like a live current, searing and consuming. Fuck, he wanted more. He wanted everything. As she shuddered through the remnants, he kissed her, his tongue doing to her mouth what his finger did to her pussy, what his cock craved.

This was his punishment.

To want her like this, forever.

It was a hell he’d happily suffer.

****

Beth went limp in Sinrik’s arms.

Her breath was steady. Heartbeat strong. No distress.

Yet, his grip didn’t loosen.

The moment stretched too long in the suddenly heavy air. His jaw tightened as calculation misfired somewhere in his mind, a break in the clean execution of protocol. He should have already issued commands. Should have had her transferred, restrained, processed. Should have placed her where she belonged—under observation, behind glass, beneath scrutiny. Instead, he was still standing there. Holding her.

He flicked his gaze up. His men were watching. Waiting. Their faces were unreadable, the way they were created to be, but something unspoken settled into the silence.

He adjusted his grip and turned, walking with her to the door. No one questioned him as he walked out, moving without hesitation, though the route he took wasn’t the one he should have taken. His feet didn’t carry him to Med Lab One.

The corridors stretched long and silent, security locks hissing at his clearance. She was weightless in his arms, but her presence was something else entirely. It pressed against his skin, seeped into the spaces between logic and instinct, twisted something out of shape.

He had encountered manipulation tactics before. Pheromones. Neurochemical disruptors. Sonic wave induction. But this—this wasn’t any of those. This was something else. Something dangerous.

The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside, shifting her in his arms as the doors sealed them in. The quiet in the lift was absolute. She sighed against his chest, a soft, breathy sound. His fingers twitched against the fabric of her clothes as the instinct to tighten his grip burned through his muscles.

He was suddenly on the floor where his quarters were. When had he decided that? Fuck.

He carried her down the darkened hall, past security checkpoints that recognized only him. By the time he reached his room and the locks engaged behind him, the realization settled into his chest like a foreign weight. She was there, in his space. Where no one else had ever been.

His fingers flexed as unease unfurled through him. He had made a tactical decision. He would assess the threat. He would regain control. It would not escalate.

But as he lowered her onto his bed, the sensation of her heat lingering against his skin, he already knew—it had already fucking escalated.

****

Beth surfaced from sleep in layers—first, the awareness of her own breath, then the weight of her body against unfamiliar sheets. The air was different. Carrying something she couldn’t quite place. Her mind fought through the remnants of exhaustion, sorting through scattered impressions. She had been restrained. Scanned. Questioned.

A jolt of panic popped her eyes open to dimmed lighting and him, in a chair near the bed. Watching. Their gazes locked as she studied his stare. It wasn’t the way a man watches a woman or even the way a predator observes prey. It was sharper. More like a scientist with a hand on the pulse of a living experiment—one he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Beth swallowed against the dryness in her throat as she shifted slightly. The movement felt strange. Her body wasn’t in pain, but it felt different. Warmer. A pulse of uneasiness threaded through her stomach, low and lingering.

He leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his thighs. The movement was casual. His focus was not. “How do you feel?” he asked, voice unreadable.

Beth licked her lips, and his eyes tracked the movement. “Tired,” she admitted. “But… okay.”

Silence coiled between them as his stare penetrated skin and bone.

She blinked out of his gaze, needing to ground herself. “Where am I?”

“The south wing. You’re still in my facility.” His gaze flicked down her body, but not in a way that felt lewd. It was like he was checking something. Measuring.

He sat back, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You need to eat.”

Beth frowned slightly, caught off guard by the command in his tone. Her stomach did feel empty, but the moment he said it, something clenched low inside her. Hunger. And yet, she couldn’t imagine eating food. Her fingers curled against the sheets. “I… I can eat,” she said, the words feeling strange in her mouth.

He rose, fluid and controlled, moving toward the small kitchenette in the corner. He removed the black jacket he wore, revealing muscles covered in ink.

She jerked her eyes away, not wanting to get caught looking. He was already clearly suspicious of her, especially now that he knew about her gift. But even with her gaze averted, his lethal frame remained in her mind, as if insisting she figure him out and get to the bottom of why she was here so she could hurry and get out. Every second away from Bishop felt like angry teeth in her body.

She sat up carefully as he set something on the counter. His hands and fingers moved, the veins beneath his skin shifting as he broke the seal on the packaging. The memory of Bishop biting and sucking her bolted through her stomach and she clenched her eyes shut. She fought to breathe through the rush spinning in her body and mind.

God. Please. What was wrong with her?

She stayed hidden behind closed eyes, hearing him approach, wishing he wouldn’t.

“Eat,” he said quietly.

Just take the food. For the baby.

Beth opened her eyes and regarded the tray of noodles, willing her appetite to kick in and help. She reached for it as her stomach did the opposite while her gaze locked onto his hand.

“You okay?” he asked when the tray shook as she brought it to her lap.

“I’ll be okay. I’m just… I miss my husband.”

He turned and she regarded his departure as he walked back to the kitchen. “Then why aren’t you with him?” he muttered at the sink. “Why did you ask to be brought here? Figure that out yet?”

She studied the noodles, the original answers feeling all wrong now.

“What gave you the idea to even request such a thing?”

The quiet question held an agitated perplexity that rolled over her skin.

“And why request such an outrageous thing? Without knowing why? ”

His bafflement added even more stress to her worn nerves. “I thought I was protecting my friends, for one,” she said, unable to find enough conviction to justify that.

“From what?” he pushed, facing her.

She met his gaze, pushing back. “Have you seen your soldiers? They cut open the floor of our convoy. I thought they were going to hurt us.”

“My soldiers don’t kill without express orders, and only against threats. ”

She widened her eyes. “Like I could know that! Why did he take me if…” She realized it was a stupid question before lowering her gaze. “I didn’t realize I was… persuading him that much.”

He put his hands on the counter, lowering his head with a sigh, like she was a useless item he didn’t know how to discard.

She stirred the food in the tray, absently. “I am trying to understand why I’m here,” she muttered, feeling lost in her own mind as she twirled noodles onto the fork. Tears welled in her eyes and dropped right into her dish as pain spread hot and thick through her chest till she had to gasp for air.

Seeing him approach, she warded him away with a shake of her head. “I’m fine,” she whispered. “Just… pregnancy hormones.” She swallowed hard, setting the food down. “Is it possible for me to… borrow a shower?” she asked, ready to be alone.

She waited in the silence now stretching between them. “Yes,” he finally said, his tone almost gentle. “You’re not a prisoner.”

Tell that to her chaotic mind. She got up and brought her food to the kitchen, getting intercepted by him. He took the tray, and she crossed her arms over her belly. “I want to be here as much as you want me to be,” she assured quietly.

He turned and she watched him walk to a door and open it. “The shower is in here.” He lowered his gaze over her. “I’ll find suitable clean clothes for you.”

She nodded, lowering her gaze. “Thank you.”

He turned to leave. “You can manage?” he asked at the door.

“Yes,” she assured, forcing herself to meet his gaze, needing to read it as much as she needed to avoid it. “Thank you again,” she said at seeing genuine concern.

He gave a single nod and walked out, taking the breath from her lungs the second the door shut.

God, please show me what to do so I can leave.

The moment she shut the bathroom door, her breath rushed out. She pressed both hands against the counter as she stared down at the cold surface, trying to still the erratic pulse drumming at her temples.

Her entire body felt off. Too warm. Too awake. Too aware.

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, forcing herself to inhale slowly. Deep. Hold. Exhale.

She repeated it five times only to feel like she’d inflated her anxiety.

Her skin buzzed with unwelcome heat, hypersensitive, electric. Like her own nerves weren’t her own anymore. She flexed her fingers, trying to shake the feeling.

It was him. The moment he left the room, she felt it ease just slightly, but it hadn’t disappeared. It still curled around her like a phantom weight.

Did he do something to her?

She straightened, exhaling sharply as she met her own reflection. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils too wide. She turned on the faucet and splashed her face, hissing at the cold. She was burning from the inside out.

Another bite of pain hit her, something disturbingly close to hunger, all while the idea of food almost made her nauseous.

Was it the baby? Was something wrong with him?

Her breathing shallowed as her mind raced, then she stilled instantly.

Had he drugged her?