Page 9 of Third

Her brow lifted. “Of what? Your patience or mine?”

“The emotional resonance field.”

“Of course.” She muttered it under her breath, but didn’t stophim.

He took two steps away. Then threemore.

The bond pulsed.Once.

Nothing.

He continued retreating—five steps, then six. He turned slightly, checking the distance between them. Measuring. Observing.

The second pulse hit harder. His jaw clenched and he pressed onward.

On the seventh step, the rage surged.

Not like before. Not the unrelenting tempest that had ripped through him in the first activation. This was quieter, sharper—like a needle sliding straight into the center of his brain. Focused. Precise. It did not roar. It whispered, and that was somehow worse. It felt personal. Directed. As if the rage had learned something about him, and now knew where to strike.

He gritted his teeth and locked his posture, muscles tight and straining against the pull that dragged at his senses. Every calculation, every directive told him to maintain focus, but his gaze betrayed him. He glanced over his shoulder, his attention drawn unerringly toward her. She was still. Watching. And the sight of her, framed by distance and that pulsing thread of connection, hit harder than the rage itself.

One morestep.

The rage ignited.

He spun—immediate, involuntary.

She was already on her feet. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He knew what would happen if he spoke. That his voice might carry too much stress, that the command in it might draw her in faster than she should come. Every part of him was straining, but not toward violence. Not anymore. Towardher.

The logical part of his mind screamed for restraint, to log the reaction and suppress the impulse. But the warrior in him—something primal, guttural—wanted her near because that was where the fire quieted.

He took a step forward.

She was watching him carefully. “You looked like you were about to tear the floor up with your bare hands.”

“Affirmative. Imight have.”

She stopped less than a foot away. “Better now?”

“Moderately.”

“Great. We’re learning things.” She rubbed her arms, and he noticed the faint tremor in her fingers. “Like how to keep you from going nuclear. Step one: stay close. Step two: don’t die.”

“Pragmatic.”

“Glad we agree.”

The silence between them thickened. He studied her face. The tiny lines of tension around her eyes. The way her chin lifted when she was afraid. She was smaller than she seemed when angry, and stronger than she appeared when quiet. And despite himself, his gaze lingered—not just on her posture, but on the curve of her cheek, the softness of her mouth, the way her hair framed her face in loose, golden strands. He hadn’t meant to notice. Hadn’t wanted to. But the observation had formed anyway, stubborn and irrefutable.

She was aesthetically pleasing.

Unhelpful.

Distracting.

He would’ve categorized that as irrelevant under normal parameters. But now, it twisted under his skin like static interference, disrupting calculation, pushing at boundaries he didn’t know hehad.

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