Page 37 of Nebula Hearts
“Me too. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
He reaches between us, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes me cry out. He circles it in time with his thrusts, building the pleasure higher and higher, until I’m teetering on the edge of something huge.
“Now,” he says, his voice a command. “Come with me now.”
The pleasure peaks, crashing over both of us at once. And in that moment, something slots into place.
The bond.
It snaps closed. Complete. Permanent. Irreversible. His memories brush against mine—not words, not images, but the emotional shape of them. A lifetime of restraint unraveling in a single, breathtaking second.
His emotions flood into me: fear, hope, fierce protectiveness, and so much love it almost hurts.
Mine flood into him: determination, wonder, trust, and a love that matches his, answers it, completes it. Through our new link, I can feel his awe, and beneath it, a flare of defiance. The voice of every instructor I ever had screams in my memory, I feel him think. A chorus of disapproval. But it’s too late. And I don’t care.
We stay like that for a long time, breathing hard, clinging to each other as we process what just happened.
“Your thoughts...” I whisper. “They brush against mine, like wind through leaves.”
“You’re everywhere,” he says, his voice shaky with awe. “In my head. In my heart. Everywhere.”
I send a wave of calm through the bond, a deliberate test of this new connection.
He relaxes against me, a contented sigh escaping him. “That’s incredible.”
“Yeah. It is.”
We separate slowly, reluctantly. He rolls onto his back and pulls me against his side, my head fitting perfectly on hisshoulder, my hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow to a steady rhythm. His markings settle into a soft, steady gold, brighter than I’ve ever seen them, but calm. Content.
“This is strange,” I say into his shoulder.
“Good strange?”
“Yeah. Good strange.”
Through the bond, I can feel his amusement, his contentment, and the deep, unshakable rightness of the choice we’ve made. On the nightstand, my datapad shows the colony’s power status at thirty-five percent and climbing steadily. It’s just past midnight. Christmas Day. Fitting, for it to happen now—the day the lights came back on for the whole colony... and for us. We did what we came to do.
“We should sleep,” Tynrax says, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder. “Actually sleep. In an actual bed.”
“Revolutionary concept.”
“I’m full of good ideas.”
“That’s debatable.”
But I’m already drifting, the deep exhaustion finally catching up with me, feeling safer and warmer than I ever have before. Connected to someone in ways I never imagined possible. His emotions hum through the bond—peaceful, content.
Home.
TYNRAX
One week later.
The first night in our new quarters on Prospect’s End, I wake from a nightmare—the ruins, Sarpi’s death, the feeling of my own hands breaking chitin. I bolt upright, gasping, my markings flaring with violet panic.
Before I can even speak, I feel Aris stir beside me. And then, a wave of pure, undiluted calm washes over me through the bond. It’s not just reassurance; it’s a deep, quiet certainty that I am safe, that she is here, that the past is the past. My breathing slows. The violet in my markings recedes, replaced by a steady gold. I sink back against the pillows and turn to look at her. She’s watching me, her eyes soft in the dim light from the window.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
