My breath shifts without me meaning it to.
Varek notices. “Does it pain you?” he asks, immediately pulling back a fraction.
“No,” I say quickly, catching his wrist before he can move too far. “No, it’s—” I pause, trying to find the word. “—different.”
His gaze searches mine, like he’s weighing that answer. Then he resets, adjusting his touch, more confident now but still careful. “Your body is healing,” he says.
“Yeah, I figured that part out.”
“The bond accelerates it.”
My brows shoot high. I had wondered. “That’s a convenient discovery.”
“Yes.”
I let out a quiet breath, tension bleeding out of me in ways I’m not entirely prepared to examine. Then, because apparently I’ve committed to this path, I shift closer.
The movement is subtle, but the effect isn’t. The space between us disappears completely, and Varek’s breath catches, his eyes flaring slightly brighter.
And then it hits. Fuck, itslamsthrough me.
Heat.
Not the kind that sits low and manageable, not the slow burn I’ve been skirting around since I woke. This is different. It floods my system in a single, overwhelming surge—intense, consuming, relentless. It feels like stepping too close to a fire and realising too late that you’re already burning.
I suck in a breath. “What the—” I fist his tunic without meaning to, my body reacting before my head can catch up. My pulse spikes, the hairs on my arms standing on end, nerves lighting up like they’ve been wired wrong.
It isn’t just arousal. It’s need.
Raw. Immediate. Demanding in a way that makes my chest feel too tight, my thoughts too slow, my body suddenlytoo awareof everything at once.
And underneath it?—
Pain.
I feel that too.
It threads through the heat, angry and aching, like something stretched too far for too long finally snapping back into motion. It isn’t just physical—it’s deeper than that. Bone-deep. Something instinctive and ancient that doesn’t care about logic or restraint.
“Varek—” My voice comes out rough, unsteady. “What is that?”
He’s already pulling back.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
The heat vanishes as abruptly as it came, ripped away so cleanly, it leaves an echo behind, a hollow ache where it had been.
I gasp, blinking hard, trying to get my bearings again.
Varek is still in front of me, but his posture is rigid in the bed and controlled to the point of strain. His hands have curled into fists at his sides, claws biting faintly into his palms, and the glow under his skin pulses unevenly now, betraying an emotion he’s trying—and failing—to fully suppress.
“I apologise,” he says, his voice controlled. “I did not intend for you to feel that.”
I stare at him.
Feel that?
