“Then don’t minimise it.”
Silence stretches between us.
I push, because I know he won’t lie. “If I touch you again, will that happen?”
He presses his teeth together. “Yes.”
The word presses heavy, and my pulse kicks. Does that mean every time I’ve touched him it’s hurt him? Nausea rolls in my stomach. “And if I don’t?” I ask, quieter now. “If I keep my distance like before?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “It will continue,” he says. “As it has.” Pain is threaded through the words.
“How bad does it get?” I ask.
“It’s significant.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His voice drops, rougher now. “It is constant during the cycle. It escalates with proximity. With contact.” A beat. “With you.”
I swallow. “And if it’s… triggered like that again?” I press.
“It will worsen.”
“How much worse?”
His eyes flare slightly, something darker moving through them. “It becomes difficult to think,” he says. “To focus. To maintain control of instinct.”
That lines up with what I felt. That overwhelming surge. Thatneed.
I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. “Varek,” I mutter. “You’ve been dealing with that for ten years.”
“Yes.”
“And you never said anything.”
“It is not yours to carry.”
“It became mine the second I felt it,” I shoot back.
That does it. I see it. Not because he flinches—he doesn’t—but because something shifts behind his eyes. Something recalibrates.
“You are correct,” he says after a moment. The admission is quiet and absolute. “I did not account for that.”
“No, you didn’t,” I say, softer now.
Silence settles again, but it’s different this time, less defensive and more… open.
I look at him properly. Not as the commander. Not as the male who’s been driving me up the wall for the past month. Just Varek. The one who’s been carrying this alone… because I told him to stay away.
“Why didn’t you break your word?” I ask. “The distance. The rules. You could have.”
He answers immediately. “You did not consent. You were living your life,” he continues, his voice steady despite everything simmering under it. “You did not want contact. I would not override that.”
Even for this. Even for ten years ofthat.
I let out a slow breath, something twisting in my chest that I don’t have a neat name for. “And now?” I ask again, quieter this time, because this isn’t theoretical anymore.
This is here.
