Page 13 of Zayrik (The Protectorate Warriors Alien Fated Mates #6)

Nyla

I STOOD THERE WAITING for my heart to stop hammering against my ribs.

Zayrik had just said the one thing I couldn’t ignore, the words hanging in the cargo hold’s recycled air like a challenge.

“But you do trust me .”

It sat between us, undeniable, making the space feel too small, too warm. The low hum of the ship’s engines seemed to pulse in time with my racing thoughts.

My arms crossed tight enough to hurt, forcing my face into something neutral. Like my pulse hadn’t just kicked up. Like I couldn’t feel the heat radiating from him even from feet away.

“Don’t make assumptions, Protectorate.” My voice came out steadier than I felt.

He smirked. The expression transforming his features into something that made my stomach flip.

“Not an assumption,” he said softly. “It’s a fact.”

My fingers curled tighter around my arms, leaving crescents in my skin. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

His head tilted slightly, those impossible eyes catching the dim cargo hold lights. Watching.

Waiting for me to lie.

Like he could taste the falsehood before I even spoke it.

“I know you don’t flinch around me,” he said, voice low enough to raise goosebumps along my arms. “I know you’d probably let me at your back in a fight. I know you sleep easier when I’m in the next room.”

I stiffened, heat flooding my face. How had he noticed? My eyes narrowed. “Did you read my thoughts?” I said before thinking. I was pretty sure Alaran’s were telepathic.

He shook his head but his eyes darkened, midnight blue bleeding to black. “I didn’t need to.”

My stomach twisted, a complicated mix of fear and want and recognition.

A different stolen ship, and I’d be halfway across the galaxy, hiding in some forgotten space station or remote colony.

Anywhere but here.

Not still standing in this godsdamned cargo hold, not looking at him like he’d peeled something open inside me and laid every truth bare.

The recycled air felt too thick, too charged. Every breath carrying the scent of him. Clean sweat and that distinctly male fragrance that made something primitive in my brain want to lean closer.

I forced my voice steady, though my throat felt tight. “You don’t get to decide what I feel.”

He nodded once. His eyes never left mine, like he could see straight through to every secret I’d ever kept.

“No.” He paused, the word hanging between us. “But you do.”

I turned, fast. Fight or flight kicking in hard. But he moved before I could slip past, his reflexes proving yet again why he was Protectorate. Not grabbing. Not blocking.

Just... close. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him at my back, could sense the careful way he held himself still.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said, his voice rough with something that made my spine tingle.

I didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. The cargo hold suddenly felt too small, the walls too close, the air too thin.

Because I couldn’t say it.

Couldn’t lie to him. Not about this.

Not when every cell in my body knew he was right.

The silence stretched, laden with all the things I couldn’t say. All the truths I’d spent years running from.

I felt him behind me, steady and quiet and maddening. The space between us charged like the moment before a storm breaks.

It was a standoff.

And for once?

I didn’t want to win.