Page 65 of Claimed By the Vykan
He appeared in the doorway like a force of nature, the black of his armor catching and bending the soft teal light. It wasdifferent from what he usually wore—sleeker, more primal, the scaled plating fitting him like a second skin. Every movement glided with lethal grace. The helm was minimal, streamlined, designed to show only his eyes—two burning embers fixed entirely on her.
He looked carved from night, from power, from the essence of predator and protector intertwined.
And she did not fear him.
He stepped toward her, quiet as a breath.
“Morgan,” he said, and the sound didn’t need the translator stone—it resonated through the bond itself, brushing her mind as intimately as a touch. Her stomach fluttered. She couldn’t look anywhere but at him.
Without realizing she’d moved, she lifted her hand and curled one finger toward herself in a silent command.
Come.
He obeyed without hesitation.
He stopped just in front of her, towering, his heat reaching her through the layers of silk. The chamber seemed to lean closer, as if it recognized the significance of the moment.
He raised his hand—not to touch her, but to lift the vents of his helm slightly away from her face.
What followed was not visible.
But she felt it.
Warmth—a wave of it, fragrant and intoxicating—rolled over her skin. A rush of sweetness, spice, and something ancient swept into her senses. Her body reacted instantly. Her breath hitched. Heat pooled low in her belly, spreading upward, down her legs. Her vision sharpened. Colors brightened.
And then came the deeper wave.
A slow, molten pulse that slid through her chest, curling around her heart and down through her limbs. Her kneesweakened. She swayed toward him. The air around them thickened, humming.
She inhaled again.
“Kyrax,” she whispered, trembling. “What is this doing to us?”
“Attunement,” he murmured, stepping closer, lowering his voice until it brushed along the inside of her thoughts. “You are stabilising me. And I am binding you to me. My venom would fracture another mind, another body… but you withstand it. You adapt. You change. You make me more than I am.”
Her pulse roared in her ears.
“And me?” she whispered.
“You,” he replied, “become immune to me. Mine—and I yours. The only being I can face without restraint. The only one alive who can see me as I truly am.”
She lifted her hand, drawn by something she couldn’t deny, and touched the lower edge of his mask.
“Show yourself.”
His breath stilled.
For a heartbeat, silence enveloped them—thick, electric, sacred.
Then he lifted his hands to his helm. Metal unlocked with soft clicks. And slowly—deliberately—he removed it.
Morgan inhaled sharply.
He was… breathtaking.
His skin was a luminous shade of blue, subtly glowing in the teal light. His cheekbones were sharp, his jawline strong, the line of his mouth fierce and cruel, and yet… unexpectedly soft. His hair spilled forward: long, white, shimmering like strands of frost-threaded silk. His eyes—dear god, those eyes—burned red, vibrant and alive, more expressive than she had ever imagined.
He watched her with a raw vulnerability that made her chest ache.
