Page 3

Chapter3

TOR’VEK WAS not unaccustomed to chaos. He had stood in the wreckage of burning starships, walked through the aftermath of orbital bombardments, and calculated the survival probabilities of entire planetary populations while ignoring the screams beneath hisfeet.

He had witnessed entropy in its purest form and remained untouched byit.

Untilnow.

Now, his balance was compromised by something as illogical as skin. By the undeniable impact of touch, of presence, of proximity.

Hers .

He stood with one hand on the wall panel, head bowed slightly, as if listening for some whisper beneath the circuits. But there was no data here—no logical pattern to extract. Only the pounding silence of a chamber torn apart by his own hands, and the low, steady rhythm of Anya’s breath behindhim.

He could still feel her. Even after stepping away, even without direct contact. The bond did not dissipate. It stretched, taut and vibrating, like a filament running through his spine.

He exhaled. Slowly. Deliberately. Then moved.

She was seated on the edge of the reassembled sleep platform, arms wrapped around her knees, watching him with that narrowed, skeptical gaze he was beginning to recognize as her default expression.

“I am going to attempt a test,” he announced.

Her brow lifted. “Of what? Your patience or mine?”

“The emotional resonance field.”

“Of course.” She muttered it under her breath, but didn’t stophim.

He took two steps away. Then threemore.

The bond pulsed.Once.

Nothing.

He continued retreating—five steps, then six. He turned slightly, checking the distance between them. Measuring. Observing.

The second pulse hit harder. His jaw clenched and he pressed onward.

On the seventh step, the rage surged.

Not like before. Not the unrelenting tempest that had ripped through him in the first activation. This was quieter, sharper—like a needle sliding straight into the center of his brain. Focused. Precise. It did not roar. It whispered, and that was somehow worse. It felt personal. Directed. As if the rage had learned something about him, and now knew where to strike.

He gritted his teeth and locked his posture, muscles tight and straining against the pull that dragged at his senses. Every calculation, every directive told him to maintain focus, but his gaze betrayed him. He glanced over his shoulder, his attention drawn unerringly toward her. She was still. Watching. And the sight of her, framed by distance and that pulsing thread of connection, hit harder than the rage itself.

One morestep.

The rage ignited.

He spun—immediate, involuntary.

She was already on her feet. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He knew what would happen if he spoke. That his voice might carry too much stress, that the command in it might draw her in faster than she should come. Every part of him was straining, but not toward violence. Not anymore. Towardher.

The logical part of his mind screamed for restraint, to log the reaction and suppress the impulse. But the warrior in him—something primal, guttural—wanted her near because that was where the fire quieted.

He took a step forward.

She was watching him carefully. “You looked like you were about to tear the floor up with your bare hands.”

“Affirmative. Imight have.”

She stopped less than a foot away. “Better now?”

“Moderately.”

“Great. We’re learning things.” She rubbed her arms, and he noticed the faint tremor in her fingers. “Like how to keep you from going nuclear. Step one: stay close. Step two: don’t die.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Glad we agree.”

The silence between them thickened. He studied her face. The tiny lines of tension around her eyes. The way her chin lifted when she was afraid. She was smaller than she seemed when angry, and stronger than she appeared when quiet. And despite himself, his gaze lingered—not just on her posture, but on the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth, the way her hair framed her face in loose, golden strands. He hadn’t meant to notice. Hadn’t wanted to. But the observation had formed anyway, stubborn and irrefutable.

She was aesthetically pleasing.

Unhelpful.

Distracting.

He would’ve categorized that as irrelevant under normal parameters. But now, it twisted under his skin like static interference, disrupting calculation, pushing at boundaries he didn’t know hehad.

Dangerous.

The rage was gone. But something else remained.

He could still feel thebond.

And it was changing.

Subtly, but unmistakably. Not just in strength, but in nature. The tether no longer throbbed with aggression—it hummed with something deeper, something that made his thoughts blur and his instincts tilt sideways. His body still felt like his, but there were undercurrents he couldn’t map. Ashift in his awareness, asoftening in the edges of computation. Whatever this bond was becoming, it was altering more than his chemistry.

It was rewriting who he was. Not just his physiology or reflexes, but the very foundation of how he processed the world. Logic, once his primary operating system, now bent to instinct. Calculation faltered. Precision wavered. The craving wasn’t just rewriting his chemistry—it was unraveling the identity he had built over a lifetime of discipline andduty.

Anya shifted beside him, quiet now, her strength dimmed by exhaustion. He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged, the way her eyes blinked more slowly. He said nothing.

Instead, he gestured to the reassembled sleeping platform. “You should rest.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured, not looking athim.

“You are not,” he said simply. “Your vitals are fluctuating. Your stability compromises mine.”

She frowned but didn’t argue. She lay down slowly, her body wrapping itself inward.

Tor’Vek stood still, watching her for a long moment, then moved to the farwall.

And stopped.

The distance pulled at him like gravity in reverse. He could feel the flicker returning—the bond reacting, heating, whispering. He shouldn’t need this. It was illogical. Unacceptable.

He crossed theroom.

Sat besideher.

Her eyes opened slightly. “What are you doing?”

He lay down, careful, measured, his body close but not touching. “If I remain near, my system stabilizes. If I do not, Imay destroy the room again.”

She didn’t respond, letting loose a deep sigh. Her gaze flicked to the ceiling.

He closed hiseyes.

He didn’t intend to sleep.

The bracelet pulsed.

And Selyr’s voice returned from overhead speakers.

“Well done, Warrior. Shall we escalate?”

Tor’Vek’s eyes snappedopen.

The bracelet grewhot.

Another rune appeared.

“Let us try something more... primitive,” Selyr purred. “Let us see how you process craving .”

Craving.

Tor’Vek froze. The heat moved deeper, threading through muscle and nerve and thought. It wasn’t like rage. It didn’tburn.

It throbbed.

It sought.

He turned his head—just slightly—and looked atAnya.

Her breath was steady. Her body warm. Inchesaway.

And something inside him reached .

But he didn’tmove.

Notyet.

And then—

The visionhit.

It wasn’t a memory. Not his. Not anything stored in reasoning or linear thought. It slammed into him like a hard reset to the spine, ripping away identity, language, time. There was no consciousness in it—only sensation, only drive. It carved away the scientist, the warrior, the strategist. What remained was hunger, pure and unfiltered, seared into his muscles like instinct coded before birth.

He stood in a forest—primitive, humid, pulsing with life. The air was thick with heat and scent, laced with the perfume of crushed leaves and something sweet, feral. Every breath came sharp, instinctual, dragging in the animal tension of a world untouched by civilization.

He could feel the dirt beneath his feet, damp and clinging. Branches scraped his arms. The buzzing drone of insects blurred with the throbbing of blood in his ears. And before him, there shewas.

Not Anya. But a version of her. Pure, primitive woman. Wild-haired. Barefoot. Glancing over her shoulder with wide, knowing, hungryeyes.

Sheran.

And the male—him, but not him— chased .

Not out of anger. Not even desire. But need . Immediate. Bone-deep. Every breath was a command. Every muscle a weapon aimed toward her. His body didn’t ask—it obeyed. He ran, not because he chose to, but because not running was unthinkable. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out thought, devouring restraint. Each step consumed distance. Each breath ignited urgency. She was the answer to the ache, the cure to the void. He had to reach her. Had to possess her. Had to make herhis.

She stumbled. Notfar.

Turned.

Facedhim.

Her chest heaved, but she didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Her pupils dilated. Her breath hitched, lips parting just slightly as she turned fully to face him. She didn’t run again. Didn’t fight. She simply stood—waiting, steady, her gaze locked on his like she already knew what he was. What he needed. And still, she watched himcome.

He reached for her—rough, hungry, his stride eating the space between them. And she did not move. The forest disappeared behind her. She stood in the clearing, framed by shadows and moonlight, wearing nothing but his shirt.

Anya’s shirt.

It clung to her thighs, open at the collar, revealing skin he hadn’t meant to imagine. But now he couldn’t look away. The vision shifted, intensified. It was her. Not just a woman. Not just a symbol. Her. Anya .

He lunged.

She gasped as he grabbed her, spinning her hard against a tree. One hand fisted the fabric of the shirt, dragging it down over her shoulder. It tore. She arched into him—either in challenge or surrender, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. His mouth crashed to her neck, open and rough, golden canines scraping and the craving tore through him, ablinding, endless demand.

He pressed her back. Pinned her. Forced his weight against hers. The shirt gave way completely.

She moaned.

And just as he drove into her—

—Tor’Vek jerked awake.

His eyes flared wide, heart hammering. The air was wrong. The room was wrong. Too quiet. Too small. Tooreal.

The bracelet throbbed against hisskin.

He turned his head—and she was there.

Anya.

Sleeping. Curled slightly toward him, lips parted, breath steady. Soft hair sweeping her cheek. Unaware.

He stared at her for one ragged breath. Then another.

His entire body was tight, on edge, trembling not with rage, but with something worse. He was still half-caught in the vision, breath shallow, blood heated and confused. The forest still clung to him—its heat, its scent, her image burned into the backs of his eyes. His fists clenched instinctively at his sides, and he shook his head once, sharp, like a predator trying to shake off a sedative. He didn’t want it. Didn’t ask for it. But the craving still crawled under his skin. The remnants of the dream tugged at him, begging for more, even as his mind recoiled in revulsion. He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw rigid, forcing every cell of his body back into alignment.

It took toolong.

Long enough that he hated how close it hadcome.

Craving.

He sat up, slowly. Deliberately. Planted both feet on the floor and pressed his hands to his thighs.

That is notme.

The memory—no, the programmed vision—still roiled in his mind, slick with instinct and heat. He tried to file it away, like corrupted data. But it clung. It wanted .

That is notme.

Behind him, Anya shifted slightly in her sleep. The sound pulled at him like a hook in his spine.

He stood.

Backedaway.

The bracelet pulsed once. Again. Hungrier this time. The craving growing. Pulling. It twisted through his limbs, wound tight in his gut, demanding motion, release, her . His lips curled back over his gold-capped canines, not in threat, but in instinct. Primal. Automatic. He growled, low and rough, asound that rose unbidden from somewhere beneath speech—ancient and territorial. He pressed both hands flat to the wall, trying to protect himself against the risingheat.

It didn’twork.

He forced his breathing to regulate. Forced his eyes away from the delicate line of her jaw, the softness of her mouth, the way she murmured something in her sleep—

“Maya...”

He froze.

His jaw locked. He turned hisback.

A relative? An emotional connection? Whoever Maya was, she wasn’t meant for him. No, it was Anya’s tether. Her reason.

A craving separate from hisown.

And yet, their bond didn’t care whose ache came first.

It responded anyway.

And still, the bracelet glowed.

He moved to the far wall and braced one palm against the cool surface, supporting himself. The craving followed. Not just followed—it surged. With each step away from her, it intensified, wrapping tighter around his chest, his spine, his thoughts. The absence of her beside him became unbearable, adragging weight against his instincts. The wall was cold, but not enough. Not enough to counteract the burning need humming beneath hisskin.

Control is not optional.

And then he heard her shift.

The sound was soft, barely audible over the pounding in his head. The mattress whispered against skin. Abreath catching. Amurmur of movement.

“Tor’Vek?”

Her voice was low, raspy with sleep. Human. Soft.Real.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you okay?”

Still, he said nothing. His back remained to her, his hands planted against the wall, his body vibrating with restraint. He could hear her getting up—bare feet skimmed against the floor. The bond flared in response, humming, eager.

“Did he do something?” she asked quietly. “Selyr?”

The word snapped something inside him. He turned slowly, every motion controlled, deliberate. Anya had stepped closer, arms folded protectively, confusion etched across herface.

“I felt it,” she murmured. “The bracelet. It changed again, didn’t it?”

He nodded once. Unable to resist, he took one step toward her. The bond pulsed.

“You’re shaking,” she said slowly, brows drawing together. “What did he do?”

His chest rose, then fell. “Something worse than rage.”

Anya didn’t move. Not away. Not forward. She watched him the way one might watch a fuse inch toward flame—calm, but tense.

“I can feel it,” shesaid.

His breath hitched as he struggled for control. Non-existent control. “What do you feel?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. Heat. Need. It’s not mine. Idon’t think it’s mine. But... it’s strong.”

He advanced again, slower this time, but no less dangerous. His body fought him at every step—not with violence, but with heat, with hunger, with the ache of needing something he couldn’t name. Each movement was too fluid, too tense. He didn’t test the bond anymore. He stalked it. Pushed at the edge of it like a predator feeling out a cage he meant to break. There was no restraint left—only the thinnest thread of discipline, fraying fast, unraveling between each heartbeat.

“You are not wrong,” he said, his voice low, tight. “But it is not entirely mine, either.”

She shook her head in confusion. “What’snot.”

He stepped even closer, pulse pounding in his ears now. His gaze locked on hers. “You feel it. The craving,” he growled. “Do not deny it.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then took half a breath like she meant to argue—but nothing came out. Her silence was answer enough, but he didn’t let her retreat into it. He held her gaze, let her see everything—his control, frayed and smoking, and the demand pulsing just beneath the surface. It wasn’t a question anymore. It was afact.

And she felt it, too, and it startled her. She stepped back on instinct, breath catching, but it was a mistake. The moment she moved, something in him sharpened. His head tilted, shoulders squaring, as if her retreat had triggered a deeper instinct. Achase reflex. His muscles tensed, strained, eyes darkening—not with anger, but with focus. Apredator who’d spotted motion.

And she had just flinched.

She froze in place, realizing too late that she’d provoked something he hadn’t yet unleashed.

“This craving is not a weapon pointed only at me,” he said. “It reaches for both of us. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Their eyes met. Something shifted. “You’re wrong,” she whispered forcefully.

“I can control it,” he said. But the words came ragged and brittle, carved from the edge of a breath too shallow. He wanted them to be true. Willed them to be. But even as he spoke, he felt the bond pulse again—demanding, relentless. The hunger in his blood answered before his mind could override it. And heknew.

The words were alie.

“Then control it,” she urged, athread of desperation underscoring her words. “Because this—” she gestured between them, “—this isn’t you.”

He nodded.

But he didn’t stepback.

Instead, he reached out and touched her face. Light. Careful. But it might as well have been a spark to dry kindling. The craving surged. Her lips parted. Her pupils expanded.

He sawit.

She felt it,too.

She inhaled sharply. “It’s the bracelet. That’s all.”

But the look she gave him—uncertain, questioning—hit low. She was trying to rationalize it, to name it something clinical and dismissible, but her voice wavered. He saw the tremor in her throat, the catch in her breath. And worse, he could feel the truth under her skin through thebond.

It wasn’t just the bracelet. Not anymore.

“Affirmative.”

She swallowed. “Then why does it feel like more?”

He had no answer. Only a matchingache.

He stepped closer, their bodies inches apart. Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away. Her hands pressed lightly to his chest—not to push, not to resist. Just to feel .

“This isn’t who you are,” she said, voice low and shaken. “And this isn’t who I want to become.”

“It is both,” he said quietly. “And neither.”

She searched his face, and he knew the moment she felt it— his control , still intact, but fraying.

The bracelet pulsed hard betweenthem.

And her hands curled against his chest.

“I must recalibrate,” he said aloud, to noone.

To himself.

To the beast clawing in his chest.

But there was no recalibration. Not fromthis.