“Touch me.”
Varek freezes at my words.
“It’s okay,” I add, quieter but no less certain. “I want you to.”
And I do.
Heat presses against me, stealing my breath and turning interest into something far more urgent—consuming, relentless, impossible to ignore.
Whether it’s my words, the honesty of them, or something deeper—my scent, the bond, him—whatever it is, Varek reacts.
All of him.
His entire presence shifts.
Varek goes full predator.
His hot silver gaze sears over me head to toe as he looks at me like he’s already decided exactly what he’s going to do.
I shiver, letting the intensity of Varek’s heat wash over me—his control as his large hand cups my neck, his certainty when he brushes one of his fingers across my bottom lip, and the sheer force of him when I felt the firm outline of his cock against my thigh. And then it hits again. Harder this time.
The heat doesn’t just return—itsurges.
It tears through the space between us, no longer contained, no longer dulled. It slams into me like a physical thing, flooding my system with that same overwhelming combination of need and pressure, but now it’s stronger and more intense. It’s edged with something that feels dangerously close to pain.
I gasp, my body reacting instantly, my hands gripping his arms as the sensation spikes through me. “Fuck?—”
Varek jerks back like he’s been burned. “No,” he says, already pulling away. “I should not?—”
“Don’t,” I cut in, my grip flexing despite my body screaming in confusion and heat. “Don’t you dare stop.”
His control is slipping—I can see it. Feel it. The bond is alive with it now, pulsing between us like something that’s been waiting years for this exact moment.
“It will worsen,” he warns, his voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You are not prepared?—”
“Then tell me what to do,” I shoot back.
That stops him.
For a second, everything holds—coiled and on the edge. Then he exhales, controlled and deliberate. “You must not resist it,” he says. “The pain comes from suppression. From conflict.” His gaze locks onto mine. “If you accept it, it will change.”
“Change how?”
His voice is careful. “Into what it is meant to be.”
I swallow, my pulse hammering, the heat building again, pressing in from every angle. “Right,” I mutter. “No pressure.”
Another wave hits. This time I don’t fight it. I let it in.
And… it shifts.
The cutting edge dulls, the pain uncoiling into something else entirely. The pressure doesn’t disappear, but it transforms—warmth instead of hurt, intensity instead of strain. It takes hold of my body like it belongs there, like it’s been waiting for permission.
My breath leaves me in a slow, unsteady exhale. “Oh.”
Varek goes very still. “You feel it,” he says, quieter now.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice rough. “Yeah, I?—”
