"I waited," his voice cut through the space between us like the ship's internal systems had suddenly gone silent just to let it be heard.

I blinked, thrown by the apparent change of subject. "What?"

He stepped forward again-not far, just enough to make the air feel different between us, charged with potential energy. "You were expected," he said, golden gaze locked on mine. "After the marking ceremony"

"I... I forgot," I said too quickly, voice jumping a note.

A pause.

He blinked once.

"You did not." The words hit me like ice water.

My mouth went dry. The lie crumbled between us, pathetic and transparent.

He knew. Of course he knew.

My hands began to shake-small tremors I couldn't control. I tucked them under the blanket, but not before I caught the slight tilt of his head, that predatory focus sharpening as he registered my fear.

"What do you want?" I whispered, my throat dry.

He held up a small brown packet.

I blinked. "What?"

Instead of answering, he closed the remaining distance between us and placed the packet on my lap. I didn't dare move.

My pulse pounded as I stared at his hands-long, elegant claws and suddenly the memory crashed over me-his hand around my throat, those elegant claws pressing against my pulse point, the way he'd lifted me like I weighed nothing,

My hand flew to my neck instinctively, fingers tracing the phantom pressure that haunted my dreams.

"Go on," he said quietly as he moved back, watching me like the whole universe might hinge on what I did next.

My fingers felt clumsy as I unwrapped the paper. Inside, soft, fragrant perfectly ripe guava gleamed under the dim light. The scent was intoxicating, fresh and sweet, filling the space between us.

A scent from another life.

My throat tightened. I blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears win.

"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why do you keep bringing me guavas?"

He studied me in silence for a moment-the close, clinical sort of attention that always reminded me how different he was. His eyes never left mine as he answered, simply, "Because you prefer them."

I stared. The simplicity of it didn’t match the storm behind my ribs.

"I observed it soothes you."

I shifted under the covers, not sure what I was supposed to do. Not sure what he expected me to do.

I stared at the guava in my lap for a moment, then looked up at him. "Is this supposed to mean something?"

He didn't blink, didn't shift, didn't show any sign of emotion or uncertainty. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken implications.

Eventually, in that same maddeningly neutral tone, he said, "It's edible."

The absurdity cracked something inside me. I let out a breath that might've been laughter if it wasn’t so full of ache. "Yeah. No kidding."

The silence thickened, and again, that unbearable attention—clinical, cold, but somehow burning against my skin.

"You keep doing this," I murmured. "These gestures. Do you... do this for everyone?"

He didn’t hesitate.

"No."

The single word hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I didn't want to explore. I was special somehow. Different. And in my current situation, being different was the last thing I wanted to be.

"Do you ever taste these?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, born from desperate curiosity and the need to fill the silence with something, anything.

He regarded me for a moment, as if deciding whether the question was worth answering.

"We metabolize nourishment differently," he said at last. "We rarely consume plant matter. We have different flavor receptors."

"So you don’t taste anything?"

His eyes flickered—barely.

"Not in the way you do."

So it was true.

The rumors, the speculation—whispers that had circled. That they were carnivorous by nature.

A strange shiver ran down my spine. There it was again-that reminder. That he wasn't human.

That no matter how closely he watched me, mimicked my expressions, he was different. His perceptions, his very nature, existed on a plane that I could scarcely comprehend.

I picked up the guava hesitantly. The flesh was soft and fragrant.

When I took a bite, the sweetness burst across my tongue, rich and slightly tangy, the texture smooth yet grainy against my teeth.

His eyes tracked every movement, every expression that crossed my face. I felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he were reading my memories through my reactions.

"Is it... satisfactory?" he asked, but the softness in his voice made the word feel like it meant something else.

I swallowed. "Yeah," I said quietly. "It’s good."

His gaze didn’t waver.

“Then why are you still trembling?”

I stilled. I hadn’t realized I was.

"But why?" I pressed again, my voice trembling. "Why go out of your way to bring me something so... human?"

He didn’t answer.

Just silence.

But not the absence of sound—the kind that builds. That hums with what’s not said.

There was something wrong about this. I could feel it crackling around us, like the air before lightning splits it open.

Then he spoke—low and deliberate, like dragging steel across stone.

"I don’t have a name for it. It isn’t efficient. It isn’t necessary."

Something flickered across his face—something untrained, half-formed, like emotion trying to wear a human shape.

"You respond to it. That makes it… relevant."

His jaw flexed.

"I secured it despite scarcity,"

A beat.

"despite the effort".

My breath hitched. The way he said it-like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he had memorized my habits, my likes, and decided they were worth something.

That terrified me more than any threat ever could.

I stared at the packet in my hand, its edges suddenly too sharp, too precise.

There was no way for him to know I liked guavas.

And yet here it was—wrapped neatly in silence, like it had always belonged.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” I said, though the question felt bigger than just this moment.

My voice hung between us, exposed like an open wound.

He didn't blink. Didn't shift.

Just stared like the answer was obvious. Like I'd missed something fundamental.

And then he moved.

One step.

Two.

Quiet as thought.

I stiffened instinctively, shifting back just slightly on the bed — but it was too late.

He knelt.

Deliberately. Slowly.

Lowering himself until he was level with me. And yet, somehow, he still felt taller. Still more.

The air between us pulled tight. Thick. Charged.

I could hear my own heartbeat, too loud in the silence.

He didn't blink. Didn't move.

Just observed me with that eerie, unhurried focus that made my skin crawl and my stomach twist in some traitorous, inexplicable way.

"You bear my mark," he said.

My breath hitched.

Then he spoke again.

"Sha’reth vel a’nai."

(You unsettle me.)

I froze. Not again

The words rolled through the air strange, unfamiliar.

They didn’t belong in my ears, no.

They belonged somewhere deeper.

His gaze dipped to my lips, slow and reverent, as if the mere idea of touch was sacred.

"Vel’tari suul ven’nak haari tan yunklo. Ka’reth."

(You alter something in my chest. As if I cannot predict myself. I dislike it.)

I didn’t know what he meant.

Didn’t want to. I knew he wouldn’t translate as well.

But I understood danger.

I remembered the hallway.

That same voice, that same language, and how close I’d come to death with every syllable.

That voice had preceded violence before.

My stomach turned slow, hollow, cold.

Still, he didn’t blink.

Didn’t pause.

Just kept speaking, like every word was an incision.

“Zeth'ar ku thal'vien—reth, zhal, verin—ka tor’na selik... ka-threx ovirat.

Ka shen'val tro'na eshal.”

(When I observe you eat, speak, tremble....I experience something... aberrant.

I seek to understand you.)

My mind scrambled to make sense of the words, to pin anything down—tone, pattern, meaning—but it was like trying to track a storm underwater.

The silences between his phrases were deliberate.

Too long.

Too quiet.

Like he was testing what each one did to me. Measuring the reaction.

He didn't push. Just lifted a hand, fingers ghosting through the air-then brushing a strand of hair from my cheek.

The touch was featherlight. Barely there.

But it felt like an electric brand. Cold. Unwelcome. Terrifying.

I flinched, jerking away. "Don't-"

He stilled. Studied me like I was a riddle with no solution. "You fear my interest in you."

Yes.

God, yes I do.

I fear the things you say,

in languages I don’t know.

I fear your power,

the kind that doesn't need to shout to command obedience.

I fear the way your eyes strip me bare,

like you’re dissecting me.

Eye-fucking me.

I fear how you made a man vanish

into a wall,

with no more effort than drawing breath and

how no part of you flinched.

I fear that the word “no”

might cost me more than blood,

it might cost me,

myself.

I didn’t say any of it.

Didn’t breathe it.

Didn’t blink.

But he saw it anyway.

That flicker again. Something uncertain behind his eyes. As if he didn't quite understand where he'd misstepped-but recognized that he had.