Page 11 of Third

It throbbed.

It sought.

He turned his head—just slightly—and looked atAnya.

Her breath was steady. Her body warm. Inchesaway.

And something inside himreached.

But he didn’tmove.

Notyet.

And then—

The visionhit.

It wasn’t a memory. Not his. Not anything stored in reasoning or linear thought. It slammed into him like a hard reset to the spine, ripping away identity, language, time. There was no consciousness in it—only sensation, only drive. It carved away the scientist, the warrior, the strategist. What remained was hunger, pure and unfiltered, seared into his muscles like instinct coded before birth.

He stood in a forest—primitive, humid, pulsing with life. The air was thick with heat and scent, laced with the perfume of crushed leaves and something sweet, feral. Every breath came sharp, instinctual, dragging in the animal tension of a world untouched by civilization.

He could feel the dirt beneath his feet, damp and clinging. Branches scraped his arms. The buzzing drone of insects blurred with the throbbing of blood in his ears. And before him, there shewas.

Not Anya. But a version of her. Pure, primitive woman. Wild-haired. Barefoot. Glancing over her shoulder with wide, knowing, hungryeyes.

Sheran.

And the male—him, but not him—chased.

Not out of anger. Not even desire. Butneed. Immediate. Bone-deep. Every breath was a command. Every muscle a weapon aimed toward her. His body didn’t ask—it obeyed. He ran, not because he chose to, but because not running was unthinkable. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out thought, devouring restraint. Each step consumed distance. Each breath ignited urgency. She was the answer to the ache, the cure to the void. He had to reach her. Had to possess her. Had to make herhis.

She stumbled. Notfar.

Turned.

Facedhim.

Her chest heaved, but she didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Her pupils dilated. Her breath hitched, lips parting just slightly as she turned fully to face him. She didn’t run again. Didn’t fight. She simply stood—waiting, steady, her gaze locked on his like she already knew what he was. What he needed. And still, she watched himcome.

He reached for her—rough, hungry, his stride eating the space between them. And she did not move. The forest disappeared behind her. She stood in the clearing, framed by shadows and moonlight, wearing nothing but his shirt.

Anya’s shirt.

It clung to her thighs, open at the collar, revealing skin he hadn’t meant to imagine. But now he couldn’t look away. The vision shifted, intensified. Itwasher. Not just a woman. Not just a symbol. Her.Anya.

He lunged.

She gasped as he grabbed her, spinning her hard against a tree. One hand fisted the fabric of the shirt, dragging it down over her shoulder. It tore. She arched into him—either in challenge or surrender, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. His mouth crashed to her neck, open and rough, golden canines scraping and the craving tore through him, ablinding, endless demand.

He pressed her back. Pinned her. Forced his weight against hers. The shirt gave way completely.

She moaned.

And just as he drove into her—

—Tor’Vek jerked awake.

His eyes flared wide, heart hammering. The air was wrong. The room was wrong. Too quiet. Too small.Tooreal.

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