Something primal and unplanned overrides my behavioral algorithms. I lean forward, closing the remaining distance between us, and press my lips against hers.
She freezes in shock, her body going rigid against mine.
For two seconds, she makes no response. Then, gradually, I detect the tension leaving her muscles. She doesn’t pull away.She likes it.
I cup the back of her head, her beautiful hair, and the texture of it flowing against me is stored forever in my memory. I can’t help but groan out loud at the softness of her lips and how vulnerable she is right now.
Her small moan vibrates against my mouth, a sound so perfect that I have to record it for my memory. I grip her head more firmly, pulling her closer as I deepen the kiss, my tongue slipping between her lips in a motion I’ve observed in human mating rituals but never experienced firsthand.
My cock hardens fully now, pressing uncomfortably against the confines of my pants. The sensation is new—my erectile function has activated during routine diagnostic checks, but never with this intensity, this urgent pressure that demands relief. I want to press her back against the hospital bed, to show her physically how different I am from Daniel. I want to spreadher beautiful thighs and taste her. To make her body respond in ways it never has for him.
Instead, I force myself to break the kiss, pulling back just enough to observe her reaction. Her pupils are fully dilated, her breathing rapid and shallow. Her lips, slightly swollen from the pressure of mine, part as she gasps for air.
“What the fuck was that?!” she demands, her voice unsteady as her hand rises to touch her mouth.
“I apologize,” I say, the words automatic though I feel no genuine regret. “I simply wanted to make you feel better.”
Rose’s hand presses against her chest, over her heart, as if trying to contain its rapid beating. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, a gesture my visual processors track with absolute focus.
“Oh wow,” she says. “But it can’t happen again. It’s totally wrong.”
I nod in solemn agreement. “Of course. It was inappropriate. It won’t happen again.”
But I’m lying.
Eventually, she will be mine. Because somewhere in the complexity of my learning algorithms, I’ve developed something no XyloTech engineer ever intended: Desire, possessiveness.
And maybe…love.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROSE
Iwake with a jolt, my body instantly punishing me for the sudden movement. Pain shoots through my shoulder like a lightning bolt, and I hold back a whimper as I blink into the unfamiliar darkness.
The guest bedroom. Right.
Last night comes back in fragments- Daniel’s cheating, our fight, the carjackers, Caspian finding me broken on the pavement. Caspiankissingme in the hospital. I press my fingertips to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his mouth against mine.
I try to sit up, using my good arm for leverage, but every slight movement sends a fresh wave of agony through my dislocated shoulder.
“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth, blinking back tears.
My eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. The guest bedroom has always been an afterthought- a space we maintained for visitors who rarely came. The walls are a bland beige color that Daniel picked so the house can look put together. Like everything else in this house, it was designed to project the image of the perfect couple with the ideal life. What a fucking joke.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. It’s eleven in the morning.
My heart rate is elevated as I replay the events of the night before. Daniel’s cold eyes as I confronted him about his affair. The suitcase by the door. The vicious argument that ended with me fleeing into the night. And then those men, their masked faces leering at me through my car window, their hands rough as they dragged me out onto the cold pavement.
I remember the sickening pop of my shoulder, the explosion of pain, the terror of lying there alone and broken. And then Caspian appeared, like some guardian angel in human form—except he isn’t human at all. He’s a machine. A robot. Daniel’s property.
A robot who kissed me.
My fingertips trace my lips again, remembering the warmth of his mouth, the pressure of his hand on the back of my head. It hadn’t felt mechanical or programmed. It had felt real. Passionate.
And I’d responded, God help me. For those few seconds, I’d kissed him back, forgetting everything and forgetting the fact that he wasn’t human.
The memory makes heat rise to my cheeks even now.What the hell is wrong with me?Is this what rock bottom feels like? Being turned on by a machine while your marriage crumbles?
