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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he Xenobeast kept his steps measured and even as they returned to the cave, careful not to betray the searing pain radiating from his side.

The predator’s barbed claws had caught him deeper than he’d initially realized, tearing through muscle and scraping bone.

Each movement sent fresh waves of agony through his torso, but he refused to show weakness.

The Graxlin pups scampered ahead, their bioluminescent patterns pulsing with excitement as they led the way home. Dot stayed close to his ankles, occasionally looking up with what seemed like concern in her oversized eyes.

Xara walked beside him, casting sidelong glances his way. He kept his breathing controlled, his posture rigid. He’d endured worse. Much worse.

The cave entrance appeared ahead, a dark mouth in the rock face now softened by Xara’s touches—woven vines framing the opening, smooth stones marking a path. His cave had never looked like a home before she arrived.

“You’re bleeding,” she said suddenly, stopping in her tracks.

He continued walking, ignoring her observation. The injury was his to bear.

“Hey.” She caught up, moving to block his path. “Stop. Let me see.”

He growled low in his throat, a warning, but she didn’t flinch.

“I saw you favoring your side. That thing got you, didn’t it?”

His sensory tendrils curled defensively, and he stepped around her, entering the cave. The pups chirped in agitation, sensing the tension. Dot pawed at his leg, her markings flashing rapidly.

Inside, he moved to the far wall, where shadows would hide the extent of his injury. He’d clean it himself later, after she slept. He’d always tended his own wounds.

She followed, her expression hardening with determination. “Let me see..”

He bared his teeth slightly, his silver eyes narrowing.

“Don’t give me that look,” she said, crossing her arms. “I know you’re hurt. Let me help you.”

The concept was foreign to him. Help was a weakness. Pain was private. He’d been conditioned to suffer alone, to push through, to never show vulnerability—especially not to a potential mate.

Mate. The word slipped unbidden through his mind, but he pushed it away.

She came closer, her hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. “Please.”

Something in her voice—the genuine concern—made his resolve waver. He remained motionless as she drew closer, his muscles tense with the effort of appearing unaffected.

“At least sit down,” she said softly, but he didn’t move. Sitting would reveal how much the wound hampered him.

She sighed and reached for him, her fingers brushing the edge of his wound where blue blood had mixed with black. The contact sent a jolt through his system—pain mingled with something else, something warmer.

“You’re being stubborn,” she murmured.

His body betrayed him then, a wave of dizziness forcing him to brace one hand against the cave wall. The motion pulled at his torn flesh, and he couldn’t suppress a sharp intake of breath.

Her eyes widened. “It’s worse than I thought.”

The pups gathered around his feet, their chirps taking on a worried tone. Dot began to climb his leg, her tiny claws digging in for purchase, and the pain from that small weight was enough to make his vision blur momentarily.

“Sit,” Xara commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

His legs buckled before he could decide to obey, and he slid down the wall to the floor. The movement sent fresh agony lancing through his side, and he couldn’t suppress a low, rumbling groan.

She was beside him instantly, her hands gentle but firm as she began cleansing the area around the wound. “I need to see how bad it is.”

He should stop her, push her away, but the pain was becoming harder to ignore, and his thoughts were growing fuzzy around the edges. The predator’s claws must have carried some toxin—not enough to kill him, but enough to weaken.

She inhaled sharply as she cleared away enough of the predator’s blood to reveal the extent of his injury.

“This needs treating right away.”

He tried to rise, to indicate he would handle it himself, but his muscles refused to cooperate. The cave tilted strangely around him.

“Don’t you dare try to get up,” she warned, her voice tight with worry. “Stay put.”

She moved quickly around the cave, gathering supplies: the moss that grew near the thermal springs, which he’d used on her own wounds when she first arrived; fragments of tech salvaged from the ruins; water from their store.

The pups followed her, chirping anxiously. One returned with a piece of clean fabric clutched in its mouth—a scrap she’d found and kept for bandages.

“Good job, little one,” she murmured, taking it.

He watched through increasingly unfocused eyes as she knelt beside him again, quickly cleaning away the rest of the blood. Even through his pain-hazed vision, he could see her concern deepen. The gashes were deep, the edges already swelling with an unnatural purple tinge.

“Venom,” she said quietly. “We need to draw it out.”

She pressed a water-soaked cloth against the wound again, cleaning away the rest of the blood to better assess the damage. Each touch sent fresh waves of pain through him, but he remained silent, his jaw clenched tight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, noticing his tension. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

No one had ever apologized for causing him pain before. The concept was so foreign that for a moment, he forgot the agony in his side.

She worked methodically, applying poultices of crushed moss to the gashes. Dot climbed onto his lap, curling against his stomach and emitting a soft, soothing hum. The other two positioned themselves against his legs, their glow patterns synchronizing into a gentle, pulsing rhythm.

“They’re trying to help,” she said with a small smile. “They can sense your pain.”

The thought was strange—that these tiny creatures would care about his suffering. Stranger still was the female beside him, her brow furrowed in concentration as she bound his wounds with strips of fabric and thin, flexible pieces of salvaged tech to stabilize his ribs.

The cave grew warmer, or perhaps it was him. Sweat beaded on his skin as fever took hold. The venom was spreading, despite her efforts.

“Stay with me,” she urged, her voice seeming to come from far away. “Focus on my voice.”

He tried, but darkness pulled at the edges of his consciousness. His head fell back against the stone wall as the fever tightened its grip.

“No, no, no,” she murmured, her cool hand pressing against his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

The cave dissolved around him, replaced by sterile white walls and harsh lighting. He was back in the Zarkari medical bay, strapped to an examination table. Faces loomed over him—cold, calculating, assessing his worth as a weapon.

Commander Vask stood at the foot of the table, his slate-gray face impassive as he reviewed the data on a floating screen.

“The subject continues to demonstrate resistance to conditioning,” a technician reported. “Emotional responses persist despite neural recalibration.”

Vask’s expression hardened. “Increase the suppression protocols. If it cannot be controlled, it cannot be deployed.”

Pain lanced through his skull as the machines hummed to life, probing, altering, attempting to strip away anything that wasn’t useful to their purpose.

“You will obey,” Vask said, leaning closer. “Or you will be terminated.”

The scene shifted, melting into the tribunal chamber. He stood before the High Command, still bleeding from the battle where he’d refused to slaughter civilians. His hands were bound with energy restraints that burned into his flesh.

“Subject K-7 has demonstrated critical defects,” Vask announced to the assembled officials. “It disobeyed direct orders and turned against its handlers.”

“It was programmed for combat efficiency,” another commander argued. “Not mindless slaughter.”

“It was programmed to obey,” Vask countered. “Its hesitation cost us tactical advantage and resulted in the loss of elite troops.”

He remembered those troops—how they’d laughed as they herded terrified civilians into a building, how they’d prepared to set it ablaze. How he’d torn them apart instead.

“The subject is defective,” Vask continued. “A failed experiment. I recommend exile to the quarantine world. It will not survive long there, and we can salvage what we need from its remains when it falls.”

The tribunal nodded in agreement. No one asked for his defense. No one considered that he might have been right.

“Defective,” they declared. “Broken. Unfit for purpose.”

Vask turned to him, satisfaction gleaming in his cold eyes. “You were meant to be perfect. Instead, you’re nothing but a failed prototype. A beast.”

The scene dissolved again, replaced by the drop ship that had delivered him to this world. They hadn’t even bothered with proper restraints for the journey—they’d simply drugged him to near-death and dumped him like garbage.

“Defective,” the voices echoed. “Broken. Beast.”

“No.”

A different voice cut through the nightmare—warm, firm, familiar.

“You’re not defective. You chose.”

Cool fingers stroked his face, traced the line of his jaw.

“Come back to me,” the voice urged. “You’re burning up.”

Something soft and damp pressed against his forehead. The pups chirped anxiously nearby.

With tremendous effort, he forced his eyes open. The nightmare receded, replaced by the familiar contours of the cave. Xara leaned over him, her face tight with worry as she bathed his face with cool water.

“There you are,” she whispered, relief flooding her expression. “Stay with me, okay?”

He realized he was lying on their bed, no longer propped against the wall. She must have somehow moved him while he was unconscious. The pups were curled against his uninjured side, their tiny bodies vibrating with concerned purrs.

“The fever spiked,” she explained, wringing out the cloth and reapplying it to his brow. “You were thrashing, talking in your sleep.”

He stiffened. What had he revealed?

“I couldn’t understand the words,” she added, as if sensing his concern. “But I could tell they weren’t good memories.”

His sensory tendrils reached for her of their own accord, curling weakly around her wrist. She didn’t pull away.

“The wound is clean now,” she said. “I’ve been changing the poultices and they seem to be drawing out the venom. Your fever should break soon.”

He tried to sit up, but she placed a gentle hand on his chest.

“Don’t. You need to rest.”

Rest was vulnerability. Vulnerability was death. These lessons had been burned into him from creation. And yet...

Her hand remained on his chest, a warm anchor against the fever-chill that racked his body. The pups snuggled closer, their glow patterns a soothing rhythm against his skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised quietly. “I’ll be right here.”

Something inside him—something that had been rigid and unyielding for as long as he could remember—began to soften. The pain was still there, the fever still burned, but for the first time, he wasn’t facing it alone.

His sensory tendrils wrapped more securely around her arm, a silent acknowledgment. A thank you. A surrender to her care.

She smiled, understanding what he couldn’t say. “That’s it. Just rest.”

As darkness claimed him again, it wasn’t the cold void of unconsciousness, but something warmer. Safer. The nightmare voices were silent, replaced by the gentle sounds of Xara humming softly and the pups’ soft chirps.

For the first time since he could remember, he allowed himself to be vulnerable in another’s presence. To accept comfort. To trust that when he woke, she would still be there, keeping watch.

And she was.