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CHAPTER TWELVE

B lood. Screams. Pain.

The Xenobeast thrashed against the restraints, metal biting into his wrists as the conversion chamber filled with searing light. Every nerve ending burned as they rewrote him cell by cell, turning flesh to weapon.

“Subject displays heightened resistance,” a cold voice observed from beyond the light. “Increase neural suppression.”

He recognized that voice. Commander Vask D’ravak. The architect of his suffering.

The pain doubled, tripled. His body arched against the table.

“You’re our finest creation,” Vask’s voice continued, closer now. “A perfect killing machine. Why fight what you are?”

The scene shifted. Bodies lay strewn across the ground—women, children, their eyes still wide with terror. A village burning. His hands covered in blood that wasn’t his.

“No,” he growled, backing away from the carnage.

“Yes.” Vask appeared beside him, a cold sneer on his face. “It’s what you were made for.”

The tribunal chamber materialized around them. Twelve Zarkari officials staring down at him with calculating eyes.

“Asset K-7 has malfunctioned,” Vask announced. “It refuses direct orders. It questions. It... feels.” He spat the last word like poison.

“The asset is defective,” another voice agreed. “Terminate and recycle.”

“No,” Vask’s eyes gleamed. “I have a better punishment. Let it live with what it is. A monster among monsters.”

The tribunal chamber dissolved into the drop ship. His wrists bound, his body drugged into compliance. Through the viewport, he watched a crimson-hued world grow larger. His prison. His tomb.

“No one survives this place,” Vask whispered as the guards dragged him toward the airlock.

“But you’ll try, won’t you? That’s what makes this so perfect.

You’ll fight. You’ll suffer. And you’ll die knowing you failed at being the weapon we created—and at being whatever else you thought you could become. ”

The airlock hissed open. A final push.

Falling.

He jerked awake, his body rigid, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Cold sweat slicked his skin, making the bioluminescent markings along his torso pulse with agitated light. His sensory tendrils writhed, tasting the air for threats that existed only in memory.

He pushed himself upright, fighting the urge to flee into the jungle where he could lose himself in the primal simplicity of the hunt. The darkness called to him—a familiar comfort where he could hide from the ghosts that haunted his dreams.

But the small, warm bodies of the Graxlin pups slept nearby, their tiny chests rising and falling with peaceful breaths. And beyond them, curled on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek, lay Xara.

His gaze lingered on her. In sleep, her face softened, the determined set of her jaw relaxed. A dark curl fell across her forehead, and he fought the urge to brush it away with his claw.

The night air felt suddenly too thick, too close. His skin crawled with the memory of restraints, of pain, of everything they’d done to make him what he was.

He needed to run—to hunt and to forget—but he couldn’t leave them unprotected.

The smallest of the pups stirred, sensing his distress. It blinked awake, eyes glowing faintly in the darkness, and chirped a soft question. The sound tugged at something deep in his chest—something that had no place in the weapon they’d tried to forge.

He remembered how Xara had clung to him during her nightmare, how she’d calmed at his touch. How her fear had eased when he’d wrapped her in his arms.

Comfort. She’d found comfort in him—not fear, not submission, comfort.

Could he find the same in her?

Before he could question the impulse, he slid beneath the furs next to her, careful not to wake her. Her scent enveloped him immediately—warm, sweet, alive. His sensory tendrils reached for her instinctively, drawn to the warmth of her body, and he let them curl gently around her waist.

The moment he settled beside her, something inside him quieted.

The frantic pace of his heart slowed. The memories receded, pushed back by her presence.

The warmth of her body seeped into his, chasing away the cold sweat of the nightmare.

His muscles began to uncoil, tension bleeding out of him with each breath.

The comfort was immediate, profound—and entirely unfamiliar.

But as his body relaxed, another tension built. Her nearness awakened a different kind of hunger, one that had nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the curve of her hip, the soft parting of her lips, the memory of her lips beneath his

His body responded, hardening with a need that made his skin flush hot. The reaction shamed him. He’d been made for death, not desire. His creators had never intended for him to want like this—to ache for connection rather than conquest.

He should leave. Return to his place by the fire. Distance himself before?—

She shifted beside him, her breathing changing rhythm, and her eyes fluttered open, focusing slowly in the dim light of the cave. She blinked, registering his presence, and he tensed, his arms instinctively tightening around her, ready for her to pull away.

Instead, her lips curved into a sleepy smile.

“Hey,” she murmured, voice husky with sleep. “You okay?”

The simple question undid him. No one had ever asked him that before. Not once in his existence.

He couldn’t speak—wouldn’t speak—but he allowed his eyes to answer for him. Let her see the shadows there, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to his thoughts.

Her smile softened with understanding. Without hesitation, she shifted closer, tucking herself against his chest. Her head nestled beneath his chin, her breath warm against his throat.

“Bad dreams?” she whispered.

He tensed again, surprised by her perception, but after a moment, he gave a single, sharp nod.

“I get them too.” Her hand came to rest against his chest, directly over his heart. “It helps not to be alone.”

The touch was innocent, meant to comfort. But his body didn’t understand the distinction. His arousal pressed against her, impossible to hide in their closeness.

Once again he braced himself for her to pull away in disgust, or worse—in fear.

Her eyes widened slightly as she became aware of his condition, but instead of recoiling, her smile returned—different now, tinged with something that made his pulse quicken.

“I guess you do like me after all,” she murmured, amusement and warmth mingling in her voice.

The words made his chest ache. Like me. As if it were that simple.

But the way she looked at him—without fear or disgust—made him wonder if perhaps he was. If perhaps there was more left of him than the weapon they’d tried to create.

He didn’t move, barely breathed, as she shifted against him. Her hand slid up from his chest to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, cautious, but unafraid.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I like you too.”

Something cracked open inside him—a fissure in the wall he’d built around whatever remained of his original self. The part of him that existed before they remade him into a monster.

Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, he lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers. His sensory tendrils curled forward, brushing against her cheeks and her neck, drifting down her back to hover just above the soft curve of her ass, learning her in ways his hands didn’t dare.

She didn’t flinch from the alien touch. Instead, she sighed, eyes drifting closed as the tendrils explored her with delicate precision.

“That feels nice,” she murmured.

The simple admission loosened something in his chest. His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer, careful of his strength but unable to resist the need to feel her tucked against him.

She fit against him perfectly, soft where he was hard, yielding where he was unyielding. Her hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, her fingers gently stroking his sensory tendrils. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, pleasure rippling through him in waves.

No one had ever touched him like this. With gentleness. With care.

Her eyes opened, meeting his in the darkness.

“Is this all right?” she asked, fingers still moving through his tendrils.

The question nearly undid him. She was asking his permission—as if he had the right to want, to choose.

He nodded, the movement jerky, uncoordinated. His control was slipping, desire clouding his thoughts, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when she looked at him like that. Not when her touch felt like salvation.

She smiled again, that same warm, knowing smile that made his chest ache with unfamiliar emotions. Then, with deliberate slowness, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was gentle, questioning, her lips soft against his, the contrast between them heightening the sensation.

For a moment, he remained frozen, overwhelmed by the intimacy of the act, but then instinct took over, and he responded, kissing her with all the pent-up longing and confusion and need of a lifetime spent alone.

His claws threaded into her hair, holding her steady as he deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth. She tasted like the sweetness of fruit and the intoxication of the sun-warmed vines, and it only fueled his hunger.

The tip of his tongue traced her lower lip, and she parted for him with a soft moan.

One of his tendrils circled her neck, bringing her closer, and her hands slipped from his neck to clutch at his shoulders.

Another drifted down her body, finding the softness of her breast as his hand followed the gentle curve of her hip, his claws tracing lightly over her thigh, and she arched into his touch.

He ached to possess her, his cock throbbing with a need that terrified him.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to search her face. To make sure she understood what she was doing, and who she was doing it with. What he saw in her eyes wasn’t fear or hesitation—it was want. Clear, unmistakable desire—for him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “You’re worried about hurting me.”

He nodded, relief flooding through him that she understood without words.

“You won’t.” Her confidence was absolute. “I trust you.”

Trust. Another gift he’d never been given. Never earned.

He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of that responsibility and by the fierce, protective surge that accompanied it. When he opened them again, she was watching him with a patience he didn’t deserve. She was waiting for him to decide. To choose.

He made his choice by drawing her closer, his mouth finding hers again with new purpose. This time, the kiss was deeper, hungrier, but still measured. Still controlled.

She responded with equal fervor, her body arching against his, her hands exploring the contours of his shoulders, his chest. Each touch was a revelation, a reminder that he was more than the sum of his scars and modifications.

One of the pups stirred nearby, letting out a sleepy chirp before settling back into slumber. The sound was enough to remind him of his responsibilities and he pulled back, his breathing ragged, his control hanging by a thread. He searched her face again, needing to be certain.

She smiled up at him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with desire and something softer, something that made his chest ache.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, understanding in her voice. “We have time.”

The reassurance settled something inside him. She wasn’t afraid, and she wasn’t leaving. Whatever this was between them, it was more than just physical need or momentary comfort. It was something he’d never dared to imagine for himself. Something he’d been certain was beyond his reach.

She settled back against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, her body relaxed in his arms. One of her hands found his, fingers interlacing with his clawed ones without hesitation.

“Try to sleep,” she murmured sleepily. “I’ll keep the bad dreams away.”

He didn’t believe that was possible, not with the weight of his past and the blood on his hands. But as her breathing evened out, her body warm and trusting against his, he found himself willing to believe that perhaps, with her, he could be something more than just a weapon.