Page 7

Chapter7

ANYA SAT perched on the edge of the pilot’s bench, arms around her knees, trying to breathe past the ringing in her ears. The world hadn’t stopped burning. It had just changed shape. The heat and panic still lived under her skin, even though the flames were gone. Even though they’d made it out alive.

She could still see it—flames racing up the walls, that last shriek of metal before the hangar collapsed in on itself like a dying star. Her chest hurt, ribs bruised, lungs raw from smoke and terror.

The scent of scorched metal still clung to her skin, and the ship’s recycled air felt too thin, too artificial. But none of that explained the real reason she couldn’t seem to inhale properly—the strain pressing in from the bond, from the man across the room whose fury hadn’t cooled since they escaped.

Tor’Vek.

He hadn’t sat still since they launched. He prowled from console to console, not pacing—but moving like a predator stuck in too small a cage. At the ship’s long-range comms array, he paused only long enough to issue commands, fingers cutting through the interface with clipped, surgical efficiency. His bracelet still pulsed faintly at his wrist. Not red, not yet, but a deep, unstable gold that shimmered like a warning. It wasn’t indecision. It was suppression—barely holding back the fire beneath.

She could feel it through thebond.

That tension.

Thatheat.

He was keeping it leashed. Just. Every few seconds, he reached back—without looking—and touched her. Ahand against her ankle. Beneath her shirt to her bare shoulder. The back of her neck. It was unconscious. Instinctual. Like he was making sure she was real. Or maybe, making sure he stillwas.

The screen flickered, then steadied.

“Alpha Legion secure channel established,” the ship announced.

Tor’Vek didn’t hesitate. His voice became a weapon.

“This is Third of Alpha Legion. Experimental facility has been neutralized. Selyr is confirmed active. Request immediate extraction protocol for Earth-based human: female, designation Maya...” He spared Anya a brief glance. “You humans use two names,yes?”

“Yes. Anderson.”

“Designation Maya Anderson. She may be under Selyr’s influence. Intercept with caution. Coordinates to follow.”

He turned to her, jaw locked. “Give me her location.”

Anya sat up straighter, fighting through the fog in her head. “Berkeley. California. United States of America. She lives off-campus with three roommates. She usually walks to class—rain sends her to the bus stop on the corner near the café. She studies computer science and always has her headphones in, half-lost in whatever coding world she’s building. If anyone tries to stop her on the street, she probably wouldn’t even hear them. And... And she’s my twin, so she’ll look exactly like me.”

He nodded once and transmitted the information in Vettian code, voice crisp, efficient. No emotion. No hesitation. But when Anya mentioned they were twins—”she’ll look exactly like me”—something in his eyes shifted. Just slightly. As if she’d said something utterly confusing.

Of course. That would explain why Selyr would see Maya as a viable substitute.

The moment the message was confirmed and encrypted, he shut down the comm link and turned back toher.

As the screen dimmed, his hand returned to her ankle. Not gently, but firmer this time, as if the act of letting go, even for a few seconds, had cost him something he wasn’t willing to name. Or repeat.

Anya didn’t pull away. “Thank you for putting out that distress signal forMaya.”

He slid his hand upward along her leg. His touch didn’t say you’re welcome—not even close.

It saidmine.

Her brows drew together, and she asked quietly, “Do you really think she could be under Selyr’s influence?”

He didn’t answer right away. His thumb moved in a slow, deliberate stroke over her skin, the motion more about keeping himself under control than comfortingher.

“It is possible,” he said at last. “He would use anything to reach us. Avoice we trust. Aface we love. If he has taken her, altered her, returned her, it will not be as leverage. It will be as a weapon.”

“So what now?”

Tor’Vek’s gaze slid to her, then back to the console. “Now we find Selyr. And we end him.”

She swallowed hard, the air too tight in her lungs. Her thoughts spiraled—what if he was right? What if killing Selyr would end it all? But how could she gamble Maya’s life on a theory? If Selyr had her, if he was experimenting again, there might not be a “later” to fixthis.

The pressure from the bond swelled against her ribs, tense and conflicting, echoing every pulse of the storm building in him. She needed a plan. She needed control. And more than anything, she needed to believe they still had a choice—one that didn’t require sacrificing her sister.

“No,” she finally said. “We go to Earth. We find Maya.”

His posture shifted, the tension tightening across his shoulders. “If we kill him, your sister is no longer in danger.”

“And if he has her already? If he moves her before we get there?” Her voice cracked. “If he uses her and we’re too late?”

“The only way to be too late is to waste time.”

Anya rose to her feet, fists clenched. “She’s not bait!”

“No,” he agreed. “She’s a variable. Adangerous one, if we allow her to remain in his reach.”

“So which is it?” she demanded. “Earth or Selyr?”

He took a moment to consider and she could tell that everything in him urged they go after Selyr. Then he looked at her. “Earth,” he conceded.

She turned away from him, pulse hammering in relief. As their disagreement had grown, so had the pulse of the bracelet—flaring red. She needed distance to think, to breathe, to escape the overwhelming heat of his logic and fury pressing in from every angle. But she’d barely taken two steps when the bond flared violently, his need for proximity hitting her like a shove between the shoulder blades.

He grabbed her again, his voice low and rough. “Do not walk away from me when the bond is unstable.”

Her chin lifted, eyes flashing. “I can’t stand still just to keep you calm.”

“Then do not make me choose between calm… and keeping you alive.” His voice dropped. “We are both injured. We will not continue this while impaired. You will come to the medbay. Now.”

She stared at him, chest heaving. Then she ripped her arm away and said coldly, “Fine. Let’s get checked out.”

The bond between them pulsed with dissonance—hot, flaring, unsettled, like it refused to allow them separation even for breath.

He took her arm again. Not painfully, but with the force of flaring rage barely restrained. His grip was tight, his breathing sharp. The bond pulsed hot between them, aggressive in its demand. His touch wasn’t about control. It was about containment—of the fury that surged every time she stepped too faraway.

Anya remained silent. She could feel the heat of him behind her, the way his fingers curled tighter like he needed her tethered as much as she needed space. Her instinct screamed to fight—her sister was still out there, her world still collapsing—but logic told her what Tor’Vek already knew: neither of them could win this argument bleeding and bruised.

She allowed herself to be turned, his hand never leaving her. Her thoughts raced with conflict. Every cell in her body urged her to keep fighting, to tear herself free and demand more time, more answers—but something inside her knew she wouldn’t win that way. Not now. Not likethis.

His rage bubbled too close to the surface, and the bond between them buzzed with volatile tension. So she let him guide her. Not because she agreed. But because she could feel the edge he was walking—and if she pulled too hard, they might both goover.

The corridors of the ship were dim and sterile as he led her down the narrow companionway. The hum of power coursed beneath the floor, steady but distant, like it belonged to a world still catching up with them. Every step pressed them closer—physically, mentally—the bond never lettingup.

When they reached the medbay, the doors hissed open. White light spilled out, too bright after the chaos. Tor’Vek guided her inside, releasing her only once the scanner lowered over the table.

And then, finally, he steppedback.

Just enough to let the machine begin itswork.

Just enough to feel the ache of distance begin toburn.

She lay back, tense and raw, as the auto-scanner slid down over her body. Soft blue light shimmered over her skin, casting soft halos over every bruise, every scrape. The machine clicked and hummed, whirring as it compiled the results, and she felt warmth spreading across her chest and down her spine as the regeneration sequence began—cellular repair targeting damaged tissue, bruised muscle, smoke-scarred lungs.

Her breathing eased incrementally. The ache in her ribs dulled to a throb. Her lungs expanded without burning, her body slowly remembering what calm felt like. But her attention never shifted from Tor’Vek. Not for a second. The scanner was healing her body, yes—but it was him she watched. The unreadable lines of his posture. The way he stared too long at the screen. The quiet tension gathering in the air around him like a storm about to break.

He stood without moving, arms crossed, his body a fortress. But something shifted in his stance. Not a flinch. Not even a breath. Just the smallest edge of stillness, too precise to be casual.

The readout finished with a finaltone.

He stared atit.

Didn’tmove.

Didn’t speak.

She frowned. “What is it?”

No answer.

“Tor’Vek.” When he remained silent, she pushed harder. “Tor’Vek, answerme!”

His eyes remained locked on the data. The golden light of the screen reflected in the violet planes of his irises, making them shimmer with eerie luminosity. They looked unblinking, inhuman—like the data wasn’t just being read, but absorbed, computed, folded into some deeper, colder logic he hadn’t yet decided to share.

She sat up, heart thudding. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Silence.

She swung her legs off the table and stood. Her voice cracked. “Tell me.”

He looked at her then. Finally. And when he spoke, it was low, absolute.

“You are perfect.”

“And that’s somehow wrong?”

“No one is perfect. It is impossible.”

The words hollowed the air betweenthem.

Anya’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her knees threatened to buckle, and she clutched the edge of the exam table, her fingers digging in as if clinging to the only thing in the room that hadn’t changed. Her mind tried to reject the words, to rewind time by seconds, minutes—anything to erase the impossibility of perfection. The hum of the scanner, the sterile brightness of the room, even the warmth left by the healing light—all of it vanished under the deafening silence betweenthem.

“Did he do something to me?” She turned away from Tor’Vek and began to pace, arms wrapped tight around her middle. “Did he change something in me?”

“Unknown.”

She kept pacing. Each step tugged her farther from him, and each time, the bracelet flared. Not with heat—yet—but with pressure. As though cautioning her. As though punishing the space betweenthem.

Behind her, she heard him exhale—sharp, disciplined, but edged with something wilder. Like a predator restraining its lunge. The sound wasn’t a sigh. It was a warning. Asignal that his grip on control was slipping, inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat.

When she reached the far wall, the bracelet pulsed again. Aburst of red-gold shimmered at her wrist. She froze.

A breath later, she felthim.

The bond surged.

He was across the room in seconds.

He didn’t speak. Didn’task.

He grabbed her wrist—not to hurt, not to dominate. To connect himself before the fire inside consumed them both. His fingers closed around her with a desperation that wasn’t frantic, but deep-rooted, elemental. She felt it through the bond—his need to hold something real, something steady, while everything else within him threatened to detonate. Letting go wasn’t an option. Not for him. Notnow.

The red in his bracelet ignited like flame.

His eyes turned molten.

He stripped off her shirt in one motion, fluid and deliberate. The fabric skimmed over her skin and hit the floor in a whisper, but everything inside her screamed. Her breath caught in her throat. Not from fear—but from the raw intensity rolling off him in waves.

The room felt smaller, hotter. Her heart thundered. Part of her wanted to push him back, to get space and air and clarity. But the other part, the one thrumming in sync with the bond, couldn’t stop staring at him. Couldn’t ignore the way her skin prickled where he touched her. Couldn’t forget what it felt like when the craving overtook them both. She should pull away. She didn’t. She couldn’t.

“What are you doing?”

“I told you,” he said roughly, “I need your skin on mine.”

Anya tried to protest, to speak—but he was drawing her to him again, his hands firm and urgent, like the space between them had turned toxic and fast, like the only way to stop the burn was to bury it inher.

She inhaled sharply.

Their bodies collided, chests rising in sync, breath catching on contact. The bond flared like a detonation—all-consuming, unfiltered impulse surging between them in a wave that nearly knocked her back. Her fingers fisted in the belt of his trousers as the craving roared through her veins. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was need, pure and primal, fed by his rage and matched by something just as wild inher.

And as they stumbled together toward the narrow berth tucked in the corner of the medbay, he growled against her throat—low, furious:

“What fresh hell has Selyr created with his fucking remote?”

Anya felt her pulse kick. Everything in her wanted to respond—demand answers, scream that this wasn’t fair, that this wasn’t the life she’d imagined just hours ago. But the bond screamed louder. The fire in his eyes wasn’t just rage—it was desperation. And beneath it, something cracked and raw, chained toher.

Words failed her. No protest came. No reply formed. Not with his breath ghosting against her cheek, not with the heat of his body surrounding her like a force field. Every instinct screamed to run—but another, deeper pull kept her rooted.

It wasn’t just the bond. It was the knowledge that he needed her—truly needed her. That she might be the only restraint left keeping him from fracturing entirely. Her shirt was already on the floor, and she stood wrapped in his arms, bare and burning. The hunger emanating off him wasn’t just heat—it was desperation, vibrating through her bones like a sirencall.

Her hands found his jaw, fingers stroking the edge of heat along his skin. She held steady, body unmoving even as her mind reeled. There was no safety in distance. Only in him. Only in this fragile, furious closeness that held them both together.

His grip on her waist tightened. His breath shuddered out like it cost him something.

“I can feel it,” he bit out, his voice low and guttural. “He has combined the rage with the craving. Iam fighting it with everything I have… and losing.”

“Let me help you fight it, Tor’Vek. Let me help you back from the edge.”

Her hands braced against his chest, but he didn’t release her. Wouldn’t. His forehead pressed to hers, breath harsh and uneven. “I need you, Anya. Your touch tempers the rage. Your body quiets the craving.”

He exhaled shakily, voice turning more ragged with each word. “But this—just this—isn’t enough. You’re already in my arms, and it’s still not enough. Ineed more. Ineed you wrapped around me, skin to skin, breath for breath, until the bond settles… or I burn from the inside out.”

His voice dropped to a growl. “Because I am losing control.”

Her response wasn’t words—it was action. She reached for the belt of his trousers, tugging at the clasp, eyes locked on his. There was no coyness, no hesitation. The bond had them both now, fully, utterly, and she didn’t care if it was programming or instinct or something older and more terrible. She wanted him. Needed him. Because this was the only way to reclaim herself from the rush still pulsing through her chest like an aftershock she couldn’t escape.

He caught her wrists, but didn’t stop her. Just held them there, against his chest, as if to say, Yes. But my way . His eyes met hers for one drawn-out breath, and something passed between them—heat, defiance, surrender—all tangled up in the bond. Then he moved.

He stripped his clothes fast, clinical, every movement sharp with urgency. Then he lifted her, and her legs wrapped around him automatically, like they’d done this a thousand times before. Maybe they had. Maybe in some other reality where they weren’t fugitives, weren’t broken, weren’t burning alive. The thought hit like a bruise—because that life, that version of them, was the one they were fighting to create here. Desperate. Uncertain. But theirs to claim.

He set her down on the medbay berth, following her down, his weight pressing her into the cool surface with bruising intensity. The metal beneath her was hard and unyielding, but it didn’t matter—because he was everywhere. His chest crushed against hers, hips aligned, one thigh pressing between her legs, spreading her open as if he already owned the space betweenthem.

The bond screamed between them, no longer pulsing but roaring—an electric surge that ignited every nerve ending. She could barely draw breath, not from pressure but from the overwhelming, soul-deep hunger that bound them together, body to body, pulse to pulse.

He didn’t whisper soft promises.

He didn’task.

Hetook.

And shegave.

Their mouths clashed, all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. He kissed her like he needed it to survive, devouring every breath she offered. His hands roamed with a ferocity that bordered on feral—spreading her thighs, cupping her breasts, dragging his thumbs across her nipples until she gasped against his mouth.

He gripped her hips and drove into her, his thrusts deep, relentless, demanding. She met him with matching fire, her fingers clawing down his back, urging him on. Their bodies collided in rhythm, skin slapping skin, each motion an act of surrender and battle all atonce.

Every movement was a defiance—of what she had feared she would become, of everything they were told the bond would dictate. With each surge and thrust, she seized back control, not just of her body, but of her fate. She met him, matched him, giving as good as she got—and in doing so, reclaimed herself.

She reclaimed herself from Selyr. From the programming.

This was her choice.

Her control.

The harder he pushed, the tighter she clung—not to calm him, but to supporthim.

She wouldn’t let him spiral. Wouldn’t let the ragewin.

She pulled him back, every time he lost the rhythm, every time his breath turned too ragged. Her mouth found the sensitive place beneath his jaw, her teeth grazing skin in a silent warning. Her nails dragged across his shoulders, leaving faint welts in their wake, areminder that she was still there—guiding him, refusing to let him drown in the storm of his own craving.

Until the bond stopped pulsing red and the rage ebbed from his body like a fever finally breaking, its fire quenched by touch and will and her unwavering presence.

Until the craving gave way to something steadier—something that no longer tore at them, but wove them together. It pulsed low and warm, the fever breaking into a slow, fierce intimacy. No longer hunger, but connection. No longer chaos, but a bond reforged by choice.

At last, his strength gave out. His arms shook and his breath came in ragged bursts as he collapsed against her, panting, spent and silent, his body sinking into hers like it had nowhere else to go. They remained knotted together, his cock still locked deep inside her, the thick base holding them as one. It was a joining neither could break, alink that throbbed with each breath—aliving reminder of the bond that had just rewritten themboth.

And finally, finally Anya exhaled.