Page 33 of Xara and the Xenobeast

He started to pull away, ashamed of his lack of control, when her eyes fluttered open. Instead of fear or disgust, her lips curved into a sleepy smile.

“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.

He froze, unsure how to respond. His sensory tendrils curled toward her of their own accord, drawn to her warmth.

She reached up slowly, giving him a chance to pull away, then gently traced the line of his jaw, exploring the contours of his face. When her thumb brushed across his lower lip, a growl rumbled from deep in his chest.

Her eyes widened, but not with fear. “Is this okay?” she whispered.

He couldn’t speak—couldn’t form words to explain the storm raging inside him. How could he tell her that he’d been engineered for violence, not tenderness? That the heat crawling beneath his skin terrified him because he didn’t know how to control it?

But she didn’t wait for an answer. She lifted her head from the bedding and pressed her mouth to his.

The kiss was soft, tentative—a question rather than a demand. Her lips were warm and yielding against his, and for a moment, he remained perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break this fragile connection.

Then instinct took over.

His mouth moved against hers, claiming, tasting. His sensory tendrils wrapped around her arms, her shoulders, her neck—seeking contact, drawing her closer. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, tilting her face to deepen the kiss.

She made a small sound of pleasure that vibrated through him like a shock wave. Her arms wound around his neck, fingers tangling in his tendrils, sending sparks of excitement down his spine.

For one glorious moment, he surrendered to it—the heat, the hunger, the primal need to claim her as his own. His body pressed more insistently against hers, and she arched into him, encouraging.

Then reality crashed back over him like an icy wave.

He broke away abruptly, rolling off her and onto his feet in one fluid movement. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as he stared down at her—lips swollen from his kiss, eyes heavy-lidded with desire, skin flushed with warmth.

She looked beautiful. Desirable. Breakable.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

He backed away, unable to form words. The beast inside him clawed for release, demanding he return to her and finish what they’d started. His body throbbed with need, but his fear was stronger.

Not fear of her—fear of himself.

He gestured toward the cave entrance, miming the action of hunting. Food. They needed food. It was a flimsy excuse, but it would have to do.

Before she could protest, he fled into the pre-dawn jungle.

The crimson foliage brushed against his skin as he moved with practiced silence through the underbrush. His senses werehyperalert, cataloging every sound, scent, and movement—but his mind remained fixated on her.

The softness of her lips. The small sounds she made when he kissed her. The way her body fit against his, as if designed for him alone.

He ran faster, pushing his body to its limits, trying to outpace the desire that followed him like a shadow. The jungle blurred around him, familiar territory becoming a red-black smear as he raced toward the river that ran down from the mountains and cut through the eastern sector.

When he reached the water’s edge, he didn’t hesitate. He dove into the frigid current, letting the shock of cold water steal his breath and numb his overheated skin. He stayed submerged until his lungs burned for air, then surfaced with a gasp.

It didn’t help.

Even as the river’s chill penetrated his core, the memory of her warmth remained. He floated on his back, staring up at the alien sky as it shifted from deep emerald to the pale jade of dawn.

What was happening to him? He’d survived for years in isolation, content with solitude, needing nothing but the hunt and the kill. Now he couldn’t imagine a day without seeing her smile, hearing her voice, watching her interact with the pups.

He closed his eyes, but that only made it worse. His mind immediately conjured images of her—bent over the fire last night, the curve of her hips outlined by firelight as she tended the flames. Wet and naked as she bathed. The way she’d looked up at him with that teasing smile, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.

And she probably did. He wasn’t built for subtlety or deception. His creators had designed him for one purpose: to be a perfect weapon. Emotions were flaws to be eliminated. Desires were weaknesses to be exploited.

Yet here he was, floating in a river at dawn, trying to cool the fire that had ignited the moment she smiled at him.

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