Page 24 of Claimed By the Alien Prince
CARYS
Isit at the table, staring at my research notes while the afternoon sun spills through the window, casting warm light across the room. The sounds of Verus hum in the background—soft rustles of leaves and distant calls of creatures I can’t name.
I’m so absorbed in my work that I almost jump when a soft knock interrupts my thoughts. My heart races, pounding against my ribcage like it wants to leap free.
“Carys,” Zevran’s voice carries through the door, low and steady.
“Come in.” I try to sound indifferent, but my pulse quickens at the thought of him entering.
The door opens slowly, revealing him with that familiar easy grace. He carries a data crystal in one hand, and my stomach tightens as he approaches. The way his bronze skin glows under the light catches me off guard every time—like he’s somehow woven from sunlight itself.
He places the crystal on the table between us, but his fingers brush against my wrist as he withdraws. Just a fleeting touch, yet electricity sparks up my arm, spreading warmth through me.
“Here,” he says simply.
“Thanks.” My voice is steadier than I feel, but I can’t help stealing a glance at him. Those cheekbones could cut glass; his presence fills the space around us like an intoxicating aroma.
As he leans against the wall beside me, I can feel the heat radiating off him—a reminder of how close we are. I focus on his eyes instead of letting myself dwell on what lingers beneath that surface connection.
“Did you manage to decipher any of your plant data?” He shifts slightly, and suddenly his hand rests at the small of my back as he peers over my shoulder at my notes.
It’s not romantic; it’s practical. But gods help me—it feels good. A shiver runs down my spine as his warmth envelops me, both grounding and intoxicating.
“I’ve got some interesting results.” I gesture vaguely at the scattered readings on the table. “But nothing groundbreaking yet.”
His breath brushes against my ear when he leans closer to examine a diagram I sketched—a moment too intimate for comfort but perfect in its tension.
“I have no doubt you’ll uncover something remarkable,” he murmurs softly before pulling away.
I blink rapidly as confusion spirals within me.What is happening?This shouldn’t feel so... alive.
After he steps back, I find myself yearning for more contact despite every rational part of me screaming to maintain distance—to protect myself from whatever this strange bond is growing between us.
Moments pass where we both drift into silence, filled with unspoken tension thrumming between us like a live wire. Every time there’s a gentle knock at my door or when he slides into view unexpectedly, something inside me stirs—an undeniable excitement mixed with anxiety that churns together in an overwhelming wave.
It must be the wine,I tell myself during those long evenings we share over dinner—the heady Kiphian beverages making everything feel heightened and lush. Or perhaps it’s isolation gnawing at me—a slow burn igniting feelings best left untouched.
But even as these thoughts swirl like clouds overhead, they can't drown out how easily my body tilts toward him without permission; how each passing moment seems to magnify our connection rather than fray it further apart.
Zevran settles into the chair across from me, a contemplative look softening his features. “How are you feeling today, Carys?” His voice is low, almost soothing, and it catches me off guard.
“Fine,” I reply, a little too quickly. I’m not fine—not really. The weight of my research presses down on me like an anchor in a stormy sea. Yet, there’s something about his gaze that makes me want to spill everything.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You’ve been cooped up in here for days. You need a break.”
I arch an eyebrow, skepticism prickling at the back of my mind. “A break? From what? This groundbreaking research? Staring out the same window for hours?”
“Exactly.” He gestures at my scattered samples with a grin that’s too charming for my own good. “Come have a seat with me. Relax for a moment.”
Despite my better judgment, I can’t resist the pull of his invitation—each word smooth as silk against the raw edges of my frustration. I set my samples down with a sigh, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction as I shift to sit beside him.
His knee brushes against mine, igniting heat that travels straight to my core—a reaction I thought might fade over time but only intensifies with each encounter. My pulse races, and suddenly this space feels too small, too charged.
“Great,” I huff, forcing myself to scoot away slightly and cross my arms defensively over my chest. Space—give me space.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern threading through his tone as he watches me with those impossibly green eyes.
I glare at him before pouting slightly. “I’m tired of feeling like this whenever you’re around.” Frustration laces every syllable; it spills out before I can stop it.
