Page 86 of Owned By the Hvrok

The air inside the ship was cold, filled with the faint scent of metal, smoke, and something darker—blood, maybe. Sylvia sat motionless in the pilot’s chair, still wrapped in the furs he’d given her, her body tense, every muscle coiled.

And then, without a word, he removed his helm.

Her breath caught sharply; her lungs forgot how to work.

Nothing could have prepared her for the impact of seeing him like this.

His skin was a rich, deep blue, catching the low light like silk-drenched shadow. His eyes—burning red—glowed with a steady, unsettling intensity. They didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. Long, obsidian-black hair spilled past his shoulders, tousled and windblown, surprisingly soft-looking despite the harshness of everything else about him. And his face was both elegant and brutal. All sharp lines and angles. Too alien.Toostriking.

Her gaze fell to the faint parting of his lips, where she saw fangs. Real, gleaming fangs. His nostrils flared again—as if taking in her scent, as if he couldn’t get enough of it, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths.

He looked like something from a dream—or a nightmare.

Everything about him radiated danger and barely held restraint. Fury simmered just beneath the surface.

His armor—cracked, scorched, still faintly steaming in places—only made him seem more formidable. And yet, he didn’t lunge. Didn’t shout. He just stood there, watching her.

Was he angry? Had she misstepped?

She’d said his name. Maybe too softly. Too personally.

But then, slowly—deliberately—he lifted a hand to his chest and pressed it flat, a gesture that indicatedhimself."Kyhin.”

The way he said it—his voice hoarse, cracking slightly—rippled through her like a current. It wasn’t just sound. It was resonance.

Kyhin.

It was a declaration. Of intent. Of familiarity.

It was as she’d hoped.

His name.That’s his name. Kyhin.

He pointed to her.

She blinked, slow to understand.

“Oh,” she breathed, hand rising to mirror his gesture. "Sylvia."

He repeated it: slowly, his deep voice teasing out each syllable."Sylvia."

The way he said her name: it wasn’t just recognition. It was reverence.

Her skin prickled with awareness. Heat bloomed low in her belly.

The helm clattered to the floor, a final severing of distance.

And then he moved. Slowly. Silently. Like a storm held just at bay.

Each step toward her was deliberate, steady, as if he was giving her a chance to run—or surrender.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Breath caught between her ribs, eyes locked on him, Sylvia braced herself.

Something had shifted.

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