Page 7 of Zayrik

I carried her to the nearest bench and laid her down, already scanning for visible trauma. Blood soaked through her shirt at the side. Clean entry, no exit. A burn along the edge of the wound. Blaster shot. Low setting, but still enough to take her down.

I turned to the wall cabinet, ripped it open, and yanked the med kit free.

When I dropped back down beside her, I didn’t touch her right away.

Because the second I got close—

It started.

A low, persistenttinglingcrawled up my arms.

My biceps.

Right over the place mymating markshad slept untouched for years.

I froze.

No.

Noflutzingway.

My gaze snapped to her face.

Still unconscious. Still bleeding.

Still not the kind of female I was supposed to feel anything for.

“Not now,” I muttered.

But the itching sensation spread, anyway. Subtle, warm,deep. Like my body had recognized her before my mind could catch up.

I clenched my jaw.Ignored it.Pushed it down. Whatever cosmic joke this was, I wasn’t laughing.

I grabbed the cleanser, cleaned the wound, then reached for the closure device.

The skin sealed clean, but her pulse was weak. Too much blood lost.

“Come on,” I muttered, eyes scanning her wrist.

Then I saw it.

A port.

Flush with the skin, faintly silver. The kind of thing you only noticed if you knew what to look for.

Old Protectorate tech. Modified. Still functional.

I pulled a stabilizer vial from the med kit—human-compatible—and pressed it to the port with a click.

It hissed. A soft pressurization. The drug began cycling through her bloodstream immediately.

Her vitals ticked up a fraction. Better. Still not good.

I exhaled hard, sitting back on my heels.

The warm itchy feeling on my arms hadn’t faded.

The marks still tingled, slow and steady,like they knew something I didn’t want to admit.

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