He didn't stop shaking.
Even when the bench stopped creaking, even when his sobs fell to a thin, whimpering rhythm — Nine kept trembling.
The heat was coiling deeper into him, hollowing him out from the inside. His scent turned thick and aching, tugging at instinct, pushing at every line of control inside me. But I held.
For him.
Only for him.
One of the instructors approached the bench again.
Slow. Measured.
I didn't move.
But my hand curled into a fist at my side.
Nyx surged forward in my head. Don't you dare. Don't you touch him.
The man didn't speak. He never did when he wasn't being watched.
He reached out.
Just a hand.
A palm, light and testing, brushing down Nine's trembling chest like he was smoothing out fabric instead of touching a living thing.
Nine flinched.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't big.
But it was immediate.
He didn't make a sound.
Didn't scream.
Just... turned away.
Shoulders hunched. Breathing hitched.
A different kind of tremble overtook his body. Not heat. Not desire.
Disgust.
He twisted as far as the restraints allowed, trying to curl away from the hand now moving lower — clinical, impersonal — mapping points of tension, logging involuntary reactions.
He didn't want it.
Didn't understand why it was happening.
And he didn't cry this time.
He spoke.
"Mmm... no... no touch... no... not you..."
It was mumbled. Slurred. Incoherent.
But clear enough.
My nails bit into my palm.
The instructor moved to another part of the bench, adjusting Nine's position just slightly. Fingers trailing lightly along his hip, over his side, lingering at his waist.
Nine bucked — but not like before.
Not with heat.
This was rejection. Instinctive. Wrong.
And then, a word I hadn't heard from him before:
"Rhea...?"
It was barely a question.
More like a thought, slipping loose without meaning to.
But it speared straight through me.
"I'm here," I whispered, again forgetting the rules.
The instructor's head didn't turn.
But Nine responded.
His head lolled to the side, mouth parted, eyes unfocused — but pointed at me. Only me.
His hips rolled again, but they slowed. Searching. Reaching.
"Rhea... Rhea, please..."
My legs nearly gave out.
"Need... please, help, I—" His throat worked around the rest. "Not... not them, no, no... please..."
Tears welled again in the corners of his eyes, but they didn't fall.
His scent was almost unbearable now.
Rich. Sweet. Tinged with fear and confusion.
The instructor placed a hand low on Nine's belly, pressing slightly — a test of muscular response.
Nine sobbed.
But not because it hurt.
Because it wasn't right.
"Don't want that," he choked. "Want... you... want... warm, safe—please... Rhea—"
He kept saying my name like it was an anchor.
Like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping completely into the drug-induced spiral.
I stepped closer to the bench.
Another wave of my pheromones drifted out — gentler this time. Calmer. Like a tether laid across a minefield.
Nine's body responded immediately.
His shoulders loosened.
His back arched — but toward me.
His head tilted again, trying to find the source.
And he whispered, barely audible, "You... smell like home."
I swallowed the sound I wanted to make.
Because it would have broken me.
One of the technicians made a note from the wall.
"Increased response to subject R-Nyx. Possible emotional imprinting. Will continue to monitor."
No. This wasn't imprinting.
This was the bond.
This was mine.
And he knew.
Even if they didn't.
Even if they couldn't understand why he flinched from everyone but me.
He still knew.
And when he whimpered again — this time softer, almost pleading — I took one more step forward.
And whispered, "I won't let them take you."
His lashes fluttered.
And then, with a gasp that broke open something in my chest, he mumbled—
"Love you."
It wasn't clear.
It wasn't even certain that he meant it the way I felt it.
But it was real.
And it was his.
And I would burn this place to the ground before I let them rip it away from him.