Page 128 of GlitchBorn Heart

“Depends who you ask. Those he’s saved call it rebirth. Those he’s destroyed”—he shrugs—“never speak again to complain.”

A chill rakes down my spine. “Destroyed?”

“He can take as easily as he gives. Reaving is balanced. Extraction and restoration. He’s very careful about who he restores.” Kael leans in, his voice a whisper against my ear. “And I’ve already decided you’ll be one of them.”

I shiver, torn between anger at his arrogance and the warmth his promise sparks in me.

“But doesn’t that make him a god?” I whisper, thinking of the way Jett looked at me in the lab, his eyes heavy with judgment. “He decides who gets to live, and who doesn’t. What if he thinks I don’t deserve a body?”

Kael’s expression tightens. “Then he and I will have a huge problem.”

50

TheRope

Playlist: On My Knees (Cassian Remix) - Rufus Du Soul

Lyra

“I’m going to work out...if that’s okay?” Kael lifts off the sofa and heads toward his bedroom. I nod and pick my sketchbook back up, hoping that drawing more will stop my racing thoughts.

When he reappears, I can’t help but stare. He’s shirtless, black joggers slung low across his hips, tattoos in full view. He steps up to the corner dojo and has a seat on the mat. Legs crossed, the lines of his abs still, his eyes close in some sort of meditation. He probably needs it.

I glance across from the wall of weapons to his collection of Asian masks. They seem to be watching over him from above, with a silent judgment that feels ancient and eternal. Painted mouths curve in fixed expressions, some grinning with trickster mischief, some twisted in rage, others serene. Their lacquered eyes catch the dim light and glint like they could come alive at any moment.

There’s something unsettling in the way they hang, like old guardians, or perhaps witnesses, complicit in Kael’s dark endeavors. I wonder if he trains beneath them to be reminded of restraint, or to remind himself what happens when restraint is lost.

The centerpiece is impossible to miss: a kitsune mask. White lacquer gleams like bone, bold red lines curl across its surface, and the slitted eyes are painted the color of blood. It stares down at me, a reminder of that night in the RedRoom, the mask gleaming under artificial starlight, the stranger who tied silk around delicate wrists with such precision. The sword.

My chest tightens. Oh my. That was him. It had always been him. That’s three times now I’ve been a voyeur. I wonder what that says about me.

When he looks up, for the slightest second, I swear the masks are looking directly at me. Every one of them, a witness to the secret I’ve never confessed to him. I look away quickly, so he doesn’t read my expression.

I remember the heat, the thrill of seeing his dominance, the way his hands tightened around his sword tightly, then using it so precisely to bring pleasure not pain. Oh, how I had hated that stranger for making me aroused and restless, for indulging in front of me, in front of a room full of other deviant simulations.

I watch quietly. A block, the veins in his forearms rise. A kick, the muscles along his thighs ripple like they were carved out of stone. Each strike snaps with precision, shoulders taut, every motion fast and fluid.

He pivots, stance low, breath measured. The discipline radiates from him like heat. Not just a man practicing, it’s more of a ritual, wrapped in violence. His fists strike against the padded column in back of him, each impact echoing throughout the living room.

Sweat rolls down his chest, tracing the lines of his abdomen before vanishing into the waistband of his joggers. He doesn’t rush. The rhythm is as exact as his code, every block and strike building into a crescendo.

I can’t look away. Every move tells me what kind of man he is, dangerous, yes, but also regulated, honed, a blade always sharpened. His eyes find mine, and I swear he knows what I’m remembering.

The silence stretches taut. My lips part. You only get one shot at courage, so here goes it. The words are tangled, “You...” I slam the book shut, heart hammering.

A smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, slow, knowing. That little game we play like the first night on my beach. “Me.” He stops his practice.

I stand and join him by sitting on the step up to the mats. “The RedRoom,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, before my courage runs away from me.

His brow furrows. “What about it?”

My words spill out too fast. “The girl with the silk, the sword...” My voice comes out boldly. “That kitsune mask. It was you. You were wearing it in the RedRoom.”

He’s unbothered. He also doesn’t deny it. He just studies me with those calculating eyes.

Heat rises to my face. Humiliation. “I was there, watching you. You were in a room designed for indulgence. You built a holo-girl in my image. And from the look of it, you two had a pretty good time.” My voice cracks. “Why?”

Kael remains on the mat, still, a half-smile blooming across his face as if he’s being dared to answer. This man really feels no shame.