Nine was fading.
Not from exhaustion—not yet. But from overstimulation.
His breath came in ragged little pulls, his body twitching every time the instructor so much as adjusted a strap or brushed his arm. The tremble in his limbs wasn't just heat now. It was the fine, uneven shiver of a body nearing its limits.
And still they wanted more.
"Four minutes left in peak," one of the handlers said from behind the console. "We can extend slightly if needed."
Needed.
Like this was medicine.
Like this was care.
Nyx was snarling so loudly in my head I could barely hear my own thoughts.
He's done. He's breaking. He's not a lab rat, he's our mate. Let me OUT.
Nine sobbed again, softer now, barely vocalized. His hips no longer moved in rhythm. They jolted and sagged with every breath, as if even the instinct to buck had lost coordination.
Still, the instructor touched him.
Soft brushes to his side. Tracing the jut of his hipbone. A hand resting lightly just above his navel.
Nine whimpered.
"R-Rhea... I... please, I don't know... s-something, it's—" He broke off with a high cry, jerking in the restraints.
His eyes were wide now. Frantic. His mouth opened again, gasping for something he couldn't name.
He was drenched in sweat.
And slick.
The scent hit me all at once.
Subtle, then undeniable.
A shift in the room's balance. The air grew heavy with it. Sticky. Pheromones clinging to the walls. It wasn't the manufactured heat anymore. It was his body's answer to mine.
He was producing slick.
Real.
Unforced.
Drawn out by me.
The instructor paused.
Brows lifted slightly. "First cycle slick expression confirmed. Subject is responding to scent stimulus. Noted."
I saw red.
He's not a test subject.
Nine whimpered again, hips twitching as if to follow some invisible pull. His thighs trembled, toes curled. His fingers had long since stopped gripping anything. They were lax now, as though even that small tension had abandoned him.
His scent turned hazy with confusion and want.
I took another step closer.
He flinched.
Then turned toward me.
His mouth moved. Not a word. A sound.
I answered by releasing more of my pheromones.
Soothing. Reassuring. Mate.
Nine gasped, then melted.
For a breathless second, everything eased.
His shoulders dropped. His hips stopped jerking. His body sagged against the restraints like he was exhaling for the first time in hours.
And then he cried.
Not loud.
Not panicked.
Just a soft, overwhelmed sob that tore straight through my ribs.
His slick scent spiked.
"Peak reaction stabilizing," someone noted. "Scent sensitivity high. Subject fixated on Handler Nyx."
No shit.
He was mine.
My fingers twitched at my sides. I wanted to run to him. Unfasten the cuffs. Scoop him into my arms. Bury his face in my shoulder and whisper that it was over, that I had him, that no one would ever make him cry like this again.
But I couldn't move.
Because we weren't done yet.
And they knew.
They saw what he was responding to.
One more instructor moved into view, this one slower, more careful. Reaching out not with touch, but with scent.
Nine stiffened.
His whole body arched again. But it wasn't the same.
He wasn't opening.
He was closing.
Rejecting.
His breath hitched. A panicked, keening little sound broke from his throat.
"No, no, no, not—not that, no—"
His eyes rolled toward me, wild.
"Rhea, please, Rhea, help—"
Enough.
I stepped over the line.
Crossed the invisible boundary between observer and object.
Pheromones surged from me like wildfire.
Nyx was fully awake now, teeth bared inside my skull.
Nine gasped and sagged.
He moaned.
But this time, it wasn't a cry.
It was relief.
His hips stopped moving.
His chest rose and fell in uneven sobs.
But they weren't frantic anymore.
He blinked slowly.
Then whispered, "Smells like home..."
And everything else stopped.
The instructor hesitated.
The console fell silent.
And for a moment, all you could hear was his breath. My breath. The space between them.
Then a voice. Clipped.
"Session closed."
And I exhaled for the first time since I walked through the door.