Page 51 of Savage Bond

Nyra raises an eyebrow but nods anyway. “Fine, fine. I’ll figure it out.” She moves quickly toward the control panel.

Without another thought, I hoist Ava into my arms, cradling her against my chest. The warmth of her body feels like an anchor amid all this turmoil. She stiffens at first but doesn’t resist—just watches me with those hazel eyes full of questions.

“Hey,” she murmurs softly, almost lost beneath the ship's hum.

“Save your strength,” I reply gruffly as I stride toward my quarters. “We’ll talk when we’re away from here.”

Her heartbeat thumps steadily against me—a reassuring rhythm that contrasts sharply with the chaos outside. My crew moves about in a flurry of action, preparing for takeoff while Renn watches us with that same damn grin plastered on his face.

“Don't disturb us,” I say over my shoulder as we reach my door.

Ava chuckles lightly despite herself. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

I smirk at that—a brief moment of levity before reality slams back into focus. The weight of everything settles around us as I kick open the door and step inside, shutting it firmly behind us.

The air shifts—charged, intimate. I can still hear the chaos outside, but in this moment, it fades to nothing. It’s just Ava and me, our ragged breaths mixing in the space between.

Without thinking, I climb onto my bed, cradling her against my chest. The weight of her body feels right, like she belongs here. Her heart races against mine—faster than it should after everything we’ve faced.

“Kairon?” She murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

I grunt in response, focused on the way her hair spills over my shoulder, damp and tangled.

“What did you mean when you said… that I’m yours?”

The question hangs in the air like smoke. My pulse quickens as I feel the truth rise to my lips. “You are my fated mate,” I say, words tumbling out with a gravity that leaves no room for doubt.

She pulls back slightly to meet my gaze, surprise flickering in her hazel eyes. “Fated mate? I thought those were just children’s stories.”

“Stories are often rooted in truth.” I lock eyes with her, willing her to understand. “It’s not something I chose—it’s what we are.”

Her breath hitches as realization washes over her. “So this connection… it’s real?”

“More than real.” The words spill from me like a dam breaking. “It's everything. You’re bound to me now.”

Ava blinks slowly, processing everything. Then something shifts in her expression—a mix of disbelief and longing that pulls at me deeper than any battle ever could.

Before I can think better of it, I lean forward and capture her mouth with mine—a fierce claim that leaves no room for uncertainty. Her lips are warm and soft against my own, hesitant at first but quickly igniting into something more passionate.

She kisses me back with urgency, fingers threading through my hair as she presses closer, our bodies molding together perfectly. The world outside fades completely as heat swells between us—wild and consuming.

I deepen the kiss, drawing her body even tighter against mine as our breaths mingle—raw need driving us forward into this moment we both crave.

Her IHC uniform peels away like flower petals. My claws catch on the clasps, shredding the gray fabric while she tries to maintain that infuriating military composure. Her pulse thunders under my fingertips when I graze the soft skin above her breastplate scar.

"That suit's seen better days," I growl against her throat, nipping at the angry red marks left by her restraints. The bunk creaks under our combined weight, filling the air with the scent of scorched metal and sex.

Her breath hitches when my teeth find her nipple. "At least I don't—ah!—collect my enemies' fingernails as jewelry."

I pause mid-bite. "Fingernails? That's a child's trophy." My tongue flicks the hardened peak. "I only keep bones that sing when the wind blows through them."

She barks a laugh that dissolves into a moan as I suck harder. Her fingers fist in my hair, half-pulling, half-caressing. The conflicting signals make my cock twitch against her thigh.

Her skin tastes like desperation and gunpowder. I take my time mapping the constellation of bruises from our escape, lingering where her hipbone juts sharply—a topography of survival.

"You're stalling," she accuses, hips bucking when my thumb brushes her clit.

"Teaching." I pin her wrists above her head with one hand. "Jalshagar means patience."

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