Page 30 of Third

She inhaled sharply.

Their bodies collided, chests rising in sync, breath catching on contact. The bond flared like a detonation—all-consuming, unfiltered impulse surging between them in a wave that nearly knocked her back. Her fingers fisted in the belt of his trousers as the craving roared through her veins. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was need, pure and primal, fed by his rage and matched by something just as wild inher.

And as they stumbled together toward the narrow berth tucked in the corner of the medbay, he growled against her throat—low, furious:

“What fresh hell has Selyr created with his fucking remote?”

Anya felt her pulse kick. Everything in her wanted to respond—demand answers, scream that this wasn’t fair, that this wasn’t the life she’d imagined just hours ago. But the bond screamed louder. The fire in his eyes wasn’t just rage—it was desperation. And beneath it, something cracked and raw, chained toher.

Words failed her. No protest came. No reply formed. Not with his breath ghosting against her cheek, not with the heat of his body surrounding her like a force field. Every instinct screamed to run—but another, deeper pull kept her rooted.

It wasn’t just the bond. It was the knowledge that he needed her—truly needed her. That she might be the only restraint left keeping him from fracturing entirely. Her shirt was already on the floor, and she stood wrapped in his arms, bare and burning. The hunger emanating off him wasn’t just heat—it was desperation, vibrating through her bones like a sirencall.

Her hands found his jaw, fingers stroking the edge of heat along his skin. She held steady, body unmoving even as her mind reeled. There was no safety in distance. Only in him. Only in this fragile, furious closeness that held them both together.

His grip on her waist tightened. His breath shuddered out like it cost him something.

“I can feel it,” he bit out, his voice low and guttural. “He has combined the rage with the craving. Iam fighting it with everything I have… and losing.”

“Let me help you fight it, Tor’Vek. Let me help you back from the edge.”

Her hands braced against his chest, but he didn’t release her. Wouldn’t. His forehead pressed to hers, breath harsh and uneven. “I need you, Anya. Your touch tempers the rage. Your body quiets the craving.”

He exhaled shakily, voice turning more ragged with each word. “But this—just this—isn’t enough. You’re already in my arms, and it’s still not enough. Ineed more. Ineed you wrapped around me, skin to skin, breath for breath, until the bond settles… or I burn from the inside out.”

His voice dropped to a growl. “Because I am losing control.”

Her response wasn’t words—it was action. She reached for the belt of his trousers, tugging at the clasp, eyes locked on his. There was no coyness, no hesitation. The bond had them both now, fully, utterly, and she didn’t care if it was programming or instinct or something older and more terrible. She wanted him. Needed him. Because this was the only way to reclaim herself from the rush still pulsing through her chest like an aftershock she couldn’t escape.

He caught her wrists, but didn’t stop her. Just held them there, against his chest, as if to say,Yes. But my way. His eyes met hers for one drawn-out breath, and something passed between them—heat, defiance, surrender—all tangled up in the bond. Then he moved.

He stripped his clothes fast, clinical, every movement sharp with urgency. Then he lifted her, and her legs wrapped around him automatically, like they’d done this a thousand times before. Maybe they had. Maybe in some other reality where they weren’t fugitives, weren’t broken, weren’t burning alive. The thought hit like a bruise—because that life, that version of them, was the one they were fighting to create here. Desperate. Uncertain. But theirs to claim.

He set her down on the medbay berth, following her down, his weight pressing her into the cool surface with bruising intensity. The metal beneath her was hard and unyielding, but it didn’t matter—because he was everywhere. His chest crushed against hers, hips aligned, one thigh pressing between her legs, spreading her open as if he already owned the space betweenthem.

The bond screamed between them, no longer pulsing but roaring—an electric surge that ignited every nerve ending. She could barely draw breath, not from pressure but from the overwhelming, soul-deep hunger that bound them together, body to body, pulse to pulse.

He didn’t whisper soft promises.

He didn’task.

Hetook.

And shegave.

Their mouths clashed, all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. He kissed her like he needed it to survive, devouring every breath she offered. His hands roamed with a ferocity that bordered on feral—spreading her thighs, cupping her breasts, dragging his thumbs across her nipples until she gasped against his mouth.

He gripped her hips and drove into her, his thrusts deep, relentless, demanding. She met him with matching fire, her fingers clawing down his back, urging him on. Their bodies collided in rhythm, skin slapping skin, each motion an act of surrender and battle all atonce.

Every movement was a defiance—of what she had feared she would become, of everything they were told the bond would dictate. With each surge and thrust, she seized back control, not just of her body, but of her fate. She met him, matched him, giving as good as she got—and in doing so, reclaimed herself.

She reclaimed herself from Selyr. From the programming.

This was her choice.

Her control.

The harder he pushed, the tighter she clung—not to calm him, but to supporthim.

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