Page 63 of Claimed By the Vykan
“I choose you,” she whispered. “I choose this.”
Heat flared through the bond, a heady, molten wave that made her knees threaten to buckle.
“Then,” he said, voice dark with promise, “we begin the attunement.”
Her entire world narrowed to the glowing red of his eyes and the electric thrum between their bodies.
Really, she wasn’t ready.
She was terrified.
But she was willing.
And for the first time since the night she’d been taken… she felt like she belonged exactly where she stood.
CHAPTER 29
After she made her decision, Kyrax carried her back to her chambers. He held her with the same impossible steadiness he had shown in battle, as if the world itself could tilt and he would never let her fall. At the doorway, he set her down with careful precision, brushed a metal-gloved hand along her cheek—just once—and told her to rest.You will need your strength, he had said, voice low behind the mask.
And then he was gone, leaving her with nothing but the echo of his presence pulling faintly through the bond.
She did rest—if a state of dazed drifting could be called rest. She wandered her garden, letting the cool mist gather on her skin. She ate whatever Raeska brought her, which turned out to be an alarming amount. Her hunger was bottomless, an ache that felt almost biological, as if her body were furiously preparing for what came next. She didn’t question it. Not now. Every part of her felt keyed toward some approaching moment.
When the attendants arrived, it was as if the air itself shifted.
Raeska entered first, composed as always. Behind her came the other attendants Morgan had gradually come to know over the past days—the quiet procession of women whose presence had become almost familiar.
Lethari was the first to step in, her tall, willowy form moving with the drifting grace of mist. Morgan had once commented that she barely seemed to displace air when she walked; Lethari had simply smiled, serene and unbothered, as if that were exactly the point.
Siraen followed, silver hair coiled in a regal knot, her every gesture measured with the kind of quiet authority that made Morgan instinctively straighten her posture. She spoke rarely, but when she did, it was with a calm certainty that grounded the room.
Vhalis slipped in next, quick and precise, her deft hands already assessing what needed doing. Morgan had learned that she never hesitated—whether setting a tray, adjusting a clasp, or correcting a fold of fabric. If Vhalis touched something, it was because she had already calculated the best way to handle it.
Last came Orah, broad-shouldered and warm-eyed, carrying herself with the serene steadiness of someone who had healed more wounds than she could count. Morgan sensed a quiet bravery in her, a strength tempered by kindness, and found herself relaxing whenever Orah was near.
They bowed their heads to Morgan with an almost ceremonial respect.
“It is an honor to prepare you,” Raeska said, the translator stone turning her melodic voice into perfect English. “He has chosen well.”
Morgan’s throat tightened. She wasn’t sure if she should feel proud, terrified, or overwhelmed. All three were already present.
The attendants began without hesitation.
Warm, perfumed water trickled over her skin as Lethari bathed her with movements so gentle they barely felt real. Siraen worked scented oils through Morgan’s hair, fingers gliding in precise motions that soothed something deep inside her. Orah mixed silvery pigments in small stone bowls andpainted intricate markings along Morgan’s arms, shoulders, and collarbones: symbols that shimmered faintly like captured moonlight.
“For clarity,” she explained softly. “For protection.”
Vhalis brought the ceremonial garments: a gown of deep green that shimmered subtly with each shift of light. When they wrapped it around Morgan, fastening the clasps along her spine, it felt like stepping into someone else’s skin—someone stronger, more certain.
All the while, Raeska observed with a strange, soft pride.
“This strengthens all of us,” she said. “Our bastion. Our future. A stable bond is more than personal—it ripples outward.”
Morgan didn’t entirely understand how any of this tied into the fate of their people, but she understood reverence. She recognized hope. The saelori were excited—not fearful of the ritual, not hesitant about the venom, not wary of their Vykan. They believed in him. And in her.
What unsettled her most was how comforting that belief felt.
As they continued dressing and adorning her, she sensed Kyrax through the bond. Distant, muted, deliberately quiet—like he was shielding her from the full force of himself. She didn’t know how he could do that, how he could fold in on his own presence like that, but she felt the effort of it. A contained star.
