He didn't move.
Not when I touched his face again.
Not when I leaned closer.
Not even when my lips met his the second time—harder this time. Messier. Less human.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't soft.
It was a claim.
And this time, it wasn't just me.
Nyx surged forward in my chest, half-formed, teeth dragging through the hollows of my instincts. Her presence curled around my throat, thick and hot, making it hard to breathe.
Mine, she whispered. Let me show him. Let me make him understand.
I should've pulled away.
But I didn't.
Nine was beneath me now—somehow the space between us had vanished. He'd let himself be pressed down, hands limp at his sides, gaze wide and still.
He didn't resist.
Didn't push me away.
Didn't kiss back either.
He accepted.
That was worse.
My fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. My knee pressed into the mattress beside him as I hovered over his frame, lips brushing his again—slow, then fast, then hard.
And he just lay there.
Letting me.
Nyx was purring now, low and loud. He smells better now. Not like them. Like us.
There was no sweetness in me anymore. Just hunger. Just heat.
The scent I'd released earlier still hung in the air—faint but potent. His body was responding to it, even if he didn't understand why. His pupils were blown wide. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. His throat worked in a soft swallow when I pressed my mouth to his neck.
I felt him tense under me.
Just slightly.
The only resistance he knew how to give.
And even then, he didn't push.
He offered.
Like he always did.
Because that's what they trained him to do, a voice in me whispered.
Nyx didn't care.
She pressed her will through my muscles, through my mouth, through my hands. She wanted to mark him. To claim him.
To own him the way they thought they already did.
I kissed him again.
This time not on the lips.
I kissed the hollow of his throat.
Then the line of his jaw.
Then the soft curve just beneath his ear, where his scent was strongest.
He shivered.
A real reaction.
It set something off in me.
I growled softly—real and low and wrong—and tightened my grip on his shirt.
He whimpered.
Not a protest.
Not quite.
But it was the first sound he'd made since the last kiss.
And it broke me.
I froze, all at once.
Froze in the middle of the motion. In the heat. In the hunger.
And for the first time, I looked at him.
Really looked.
He wasn't afraid.
Not exactly.
But he wasn't sure, either.
He wasn't there.
Not all the way.
His lips were parted. His eyes were wide. His body was compliant.
But his soul was somewhere else.
Detached.
Like he'd pulled himself away to survive the moment.
Just like he always did.
And I was the one who put him there.
Not the instructors.
Not the boss.
Me.
I let go of him instantly and backed away so fast I nearly fell off the bed.
Nine blinked.
Sat up slowly.
Didn't speak.
Just watched me with that same soft stillness—waiting to see what I would do next.
What I would want next.
I buried my face in my hands, chest heaving.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He tilted his head.
Didn't answer.
Didn't judge.
Just… sat.
Like a good boy.
Like always.
I wanted to scream.
I stood. Paced. Ran a hand through my hair. My body was still burning. Still shaking. My pheromones still lingered in the room.
Nine hadn't moved.
He hadn't come toward me.
But he hadn't pulled away, either.
I looked at him again.
And I hated how beautiful he looked—kiss-bruised and dazed.
And I hated how badly I wanted to go back to him.
To touch him again.
To take.
To have.
Because it wasn't his fault that he didn't know better.
But it was mine.
And still, the wolf inside me whispered: You could teach him. You could make it better.
You could make him yours the right way.
I pressed my back to the wall and stared at the ceiling.
No. No, I couldn't.
Because if I touched him now… there'd be no coming back from it.