The next time he looked at me, it was different.
Still soft.
Still wide-eyed.
But different.
Like something was turning over in the back of his mind — slow, uncertain, half-formed. He didn't have the words for it yet. I could see that. But the curiosity was there, alive and flickering behind the violet glow of his eyes like starlight.
He hadn't asked anything since I'd explained why I couldn't claim him.
But now?
Now he was watching me again.
Not the way he'd been trained to.
Not the way the others expected.
Not blank or obedient.
But thoughtful.
Present.
Like he was trying to puzzle something out.
He was still in my lap, curled against my chest, his cheek warm against my collarbone. I kept my arms around him loosely — not to restrain. Just to hold.
His fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt again.
This time, more deliberate.
More there.
"Rhea?" he whispered.
I looked down.
His voice always knocked the air out of me, but it was the way he said my name — like it was sacred and forbidden at once — that made Nyx still completely.
"Yeah?" I said softly, brushing a bit of hair from his cheek.
He tilted his head, slow.
Brows furrowed.
Mouth slightly parted.
"Why… different?" he asked.
My heart stopped for a beat.
Then thudded hard.
He was trying.
He was asking.
Nyx sat up straighter in my chest. He's trying to understand the bond. He knows we feel different to him.
I inhaled slowly.
Let the scent of him anchor me — that soft, sweet omega scent, still tinged with confusion and a faint thread of fear, but clearer now. A little more trusting.
I adjusted him in my lap slightly so I could see his face better.
"You mean why I feel different from the others?" I asked gently.
He nodded once.
Eyes never leaving mine.
I exhaled again, steady.
"It's something called a bond," I said, carefully. "It's… a connection. A very deep one. Between two people who are meant for each other. Between mates."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
His brow furrowed more.
He didn't recoil.
Didn't question.
Just… looked at me.
Then placed a hand over my chest, tentative.
Right above my heart.
As if he felt something there and was trying to match it with the invisible pull in his own ribs.
My throat tightened.
He didn't have the language.
But he had instinct.
And that was enough.
"It's okay," I whispered, covering his hand with mine. "You don't need to understand all of it right now."
His fingers tightened slightly.
Not desperate.
Just certain.
He wants to know, Nyx breathed. He feels it too. Maybe not fully, maybe not clearly, but he feels it.
"I feel it here," I said, tapping my chest. "Right here. Every time you're close."
His lips parted again.
He glanced down at his own chest.
Then at my face.
And said, barely above a breath, "Me too."
Gods.
It nearly broke me.
I pressed my forehead to his, eyes closed.
Nyx was almost purring now, vibrating with pride and possessiveness.
"He doesn't know the word," I murmured. "But he knows us."
Nine didn't speak again.
But he didn't need to.
Not with the way he tucked his face back against my neck, sighing quietly.
Not with the way his scent bloomed in the air, all honey and dusk and soft, desperate want.
He was beginning to understand.
Not in language.
Not in structure.
But in feel.
And that was more than I ever thought I'd have.