“Again.”

  The word was quiet, but it echoed off the walls of the cavernous hold. Soren’s muscles bunched, sweat glistening on his shoulders as he reset his stance. He moved with a frustrating slowness, the massive greatsword in his hands tracing a deliberate, measured arc through the recycled air. It wasn’t a swing; it was a study of forms, a lesson in basic motions that she was drilling into him until they became instinct. He was all raw power and untapped potential, a living siege engine trying to learn to be delicate.

  He was also a surprisingly diligent student.

  His feet slid across the deck plating, finding the wider, more grounded stance she’d shown him—knees bent, hips lowered.

  “Better,” she allowed, circling him like a predator assessing its prey. “Breathe. Every swing, the same rhythm. The blade obeys discipline, not force.”

  He exhaled, a sharp breath through his teeth, and began the motion again.

  It had been two days since they’d left Nox. Two days of the familiar hum of the Aether Core beneath them and the endless, silent drift of stars beyond the viewport. The departure from Berilinsk had been a quiet affair, heavy with unspoken farewells and the oppressive heat of a dying world. She had held Riza one last time, a fierce embrace that said everything words couldn't. Then they had watched all of Berilinisk remain behind as the ramp to their Aether Dust fueled ship sealed shut.

  Tamiyo had taken them into the storm-choked skies of Nox that night, piloting them through sheets of sideways lightning and turbulent gravitational fluxes while the rest of the team tried to find a few hours of shallow, restless sleep. Their destination was a station called Radiant Horizon, a chaotic hub of commerce and crime nestled in Corporate Expanse territory. Riza had already sent out feelers through the extranet—the blockchain-style network that crawled its way across the galaxy on courier ships. Somewhere in those packeted bursts of data, someone might be listening. It was a long shot, a single thread in an impossibly tangled web, but it was the only thread they had.

  Now, adrift in the void between worlds, there was nothing to do but wait. And train.

  Soren finished the arc, the tip of the greatsword coming to a rest just an inch from the floor plating. He was breathing heavily, his focus absolute. The raw power that simmered just beneath his skin was quiet for now, leashed by sheer force of will. He was trying, she had to give him that. He was trying to be more than just the weapon fate had made him.

  But he was still moving wrong.

  “You’re all arms,” she said, her voice cutting through his concentration. She stepped in closer, the air between them immediately thickening—charged with something more than just the ship's static. “The power isn’t in your shoulders. It’s in your core. It’s in the turn.”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his green and silver eyes questioning, his brow furrowed. He didn’t speak, just waited.

  She sighed. It was easier to show than to tell.

  Aurania moved behind him, her body flush against him and the large swell of her chest pressing into his back. He tensed instantly, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath. She tried to ignore it but found herself smiling. Her arms wrapped around his, her hands covering his own on the hilt of the greatsword. His skin was hot, his grip like iron.

  “Relax,” she murmured, her lips just inches from his ear. She felt the shiver that ran through him, a subtle tremor that vibrated through her own hands. “Feel the balance. Your right hand is the anchor. Your left is the guide.”

  Her hands adjusted his grip, her fingers brushing against his knuckles. The contact sent a jolt through her, a low, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the cargo hold. She pressed on, forcing her voice to remain steady.

  “Now,” she said, her other hand moving to rest flat against his abdomen, just below his navel. The muscle there was like ridged steel. “The swing starts here. It’s a coil. You twist from your hips, and you let the momentum carry the blade. The sword is the last thing to move.”

  She guided him through the motion, her body moving in perfect sync with his. She felt the shift as he stopped trying to muscle the swing and instead let his body uncoil. The massive blade sang through the air, a clean, fluid arc that was both powerful and graceful. It was the first time he’d moved like a true warrior.

  Her hand lingered on his stomach a beat too long. She could feel his pulse hammering against her palm. Or maybe it was her own.

  She pulled back abruptly, stepping away and putting a careful distance between them.

  “Again,” she said, her voice a little rougher than she intended. “From the beginning.”

  He obeyed without question, settling back into the initial stance. For the better part of an hour, the only sounds in the cargo hold were the rhythmic scrape of his boots on the deck, the whisper of the greatsword cutting through the air, and the clipped, precise commands she gave him. She watched, corrected, and watched again, pushing him through the basic forms until the motions started to smooth out, the awkwardness giving way to a semblance of muscle memory. The raw power was still there, but now it was beginning to find a channel.

  Finally, she held up a hand. "Enough. Let’s take a break."

  He sank down onto one of the cargo crates, forearms resting on his knees, the greatsword sheathed and laid carefully at his side instead of discarded. That small gesture alone—his respect for the weapon—earned him a flicker of approval.

  Aurania took a seat across from him, uncorking a flask and drinking deeply before passing it over. He accepted with a nod, wiping his mouth on the back of his wrist after a long pull. The heat he radiated was a tangible presence in the room.

  After a few quiet minutes, his voice, still a little rough, cut through the hum of the ship. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wondering about lacravida culture.”

  She arched one brow. “Shoot.”

  “Well,” he leaned back, bracing his hands on the crates. “You said lacravida surnames don’t work the way I’m used to. So… how do they work?”

  He took another swig of water.

  She smiled at his genuine curiosity, then shrugged. “They’re earned. Usually tied to some accomplishment or defining moment. Not just a family name you’re born with. Though…” She allowed herself a wry smile. “I’m a bit of an exception. I became Aurania Enderchild when I stepped into my leadership role for Berilinsk. It’s tied to lineage, yes, but also to responsibility. A reminder of what I chose to carry.”

  “Hmm,” was all he responded with. He looked off to the distance, considering what she said. It was cute how innocent and boyish his expression grew in times like this.

  "What about Emberfell? What's the story behind that?"

  Aurania’s breath caught for just an instant. The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. She looked at Soren, at his open, honest curiosity, and knew he wasn't just asking maliciously, or to make idle conversation. He was genuinely seeking understanding of them.

  "Emberfell isn't a title she earned," Aurania said, her voice dropping slightly. "It's the name of the place she lost."

  She saw his expression shift, the curiosity giving way to a more somber attention.

  "Proxinara," Aurania began, "wasn't just some backwater rock. It was a thriving world, home to dozens of lacravida settlements. Riza was born in the northern territories, in a region of volcanic plains and hot springs called Emberfall. It was… beautiful, from what she told me."

  She paused, an ache in her chest growing as she recalled what Riza had told her years ago. "Then the Conservatory came. They were expanding their borders, claiming systems, doing exactly what Venlin screamed at his people about. They didn't negotiate. They didn't offer treaties. They just dropped bombs from orbit and turned Emberfall and all the rest of the settlements to rubble."

  She watched the horror dawn on Soren's face.

  "She was fourteen."

  "Holy shit," Soren whispered, the words barely audible. "So… that’s why they call her the Ghost of Proxinara."

  "Partly," Aurania confirmed, a grim edge to her voice. "She's 'The Ghost' because she was the only one to walk out of the ashes. But the legend... that came after. When the Conservatory ground troops landed to 'secure' the ruins, she was waiting. A fourteen-year-old girl with nothing left but rage and a dead parent's rifle. She hunted them through the ruins of her own home. Killed more of them than they could count, then stole one of their ships to escape. She was just a girl, but she became a ghost to them—a phantom that slipped through their grasp.”

  Soren was silent. He just stared at the floor, the weight of Riza's past settling over him. Finally, he looked up, his eyes dark with a new, deeper understanding.

  "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "For sharing that with me."

  Aurania studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “You’re welcome. I don’t think she’d mind you knowing—not now. But don’t bring it up to her. Riza’s buried that past deep. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  He nodded, and a few moments later, footsteps echoed down the staircase, breaking the stillness. Brana emerged onto Deck 5, a wrench in one hand and a look of profound confusion on her face. Her usual gruff confidence was gone, replaced by a kind of bewildered uncertainty that immediately set Aurania on edge.

  "Hey guys," Brana said, her voice tight. "We have a problem. Or maybe not a problem. Just… a situation."

  Aurania rose from the crate. "What kind of situation?"

  "The kind you need to see," Brana replied, already turning and heading back up the stairs.

  Aurania and Soren exchanged a quick, questioning glance before following her upstairs to Deck 4. The hallway held five bedroom doors on each side, and as Brana led them into the middle room on the port side, she found everyone but Brolgar and Amalia crowded together inside.

  “Who’s flying the ship?” Aurania asked as she made her way inside.

  “Autopilot,” Raine shrugged, moving slightly to let Brana past her into the bathroom.

  The room was filled with the soft hum of circulating water and the glow of inlaid lighting. Brana had installed a functional, utilitarian metal tub from scrounged materials while they were en route from Garrick Station to Nox. But the tub currently present was… different.

  It was a seamless work of art, with smooth, curved edges, recessed lighting along the rim, and a slope meant for reclining. It was large too—big enough for two full-grown lacravida at least to sit together comfortably. It even had what looked like integrated massage jets pulsing with gentle streams, and a finish that shimmered like polished obsidian.

  Amalia came running in and caught sight of the marvelous structure. “Woah! Brana! This is amazing! You have to make my shower like this next!"

  Brana’s face was tight, her voice a strange mix of pride and alarm. “Yeah, there’s only one problem. I didn’t build this. I built a metal box. This… this is something else.”

  Inelius stepped closer, running a hand over the seamless, impossibly smooth edge of the tub. His brow furrowed. "Are you saying the ship just... upgraded it on its own? That sounds like something out of some fantasy story. Or science fiction.”

  “Neels,” Amalia said, folding her arms with exasperated flare, “we’re all basically genetically engineered cousins and we’re standing in a starship fueled by an 8,000-year-old cosmic space hunk.” She thrust a thumb in Soren’s direction.

  Inelius gave her a long, pained look. “Please don’t call us cousins. I’ve had sex with two of you.”

  A ripple of choked laughter went through the room, but it slowly faded as Tamiyo stepped forward. Her eyes glowed with the faint light of her scanner as she held a hand over the tub's surface, not quite touching it.

  "The molecular composition is stable, but there's energy in it that is... active," she said, her voice filled with a quiet awe. "It's not just a structure. It's a system."

  "A system for what?" Brana asked, still looking like her entire understanding of engineering had been upended. "Self-decorating?"

  Tamiyo’s gaze lifted, serious and awestruck. “For responding to intent. Brana, you didn’t just want to build a tub. You wanted to build a place for Riza to rest. To be comfortable. The ship didn’t just read the blueprint—it read the reason.”

  Aurania’s eyes narrowed, her mind racing through the tactical implications. A ship that could anticipate their needs? That was an asset beyond measure. But a ship that could read their minds? That was a terrifying vulnerability. She looked at Soren, who looked just as stunned as everyone else. "Can you control it?"

  He just shrugged, a look of helpless skepticism on his face. "I don't know, I just work here. I wasn't even thinking about it—I wasn't even on this deck."

  "Try," Aurania commanded, gesturing to an empty space in the room. "Make it do something. Something simple. On purpose."

  Soren hesitated, then stepped forward, his expression a mixture of doubt and concentration. He raised a hand, focusing on the empty space, his jaw tight with effort. The air hummed faintly. A floor plate shimmered for a second. And then... nothing.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  There was a moment of awkward silence.

  Inelius cleared his throat. “Maybe it’s not that simple.” He turned to Brana. “How quick did this tub ‘transform?’ It didn’t just materialize, right?”

  “No,” Brana said reluctantly. “I don’t think so, at least. I haven’t actually come in here since I built it so all I can tell you is ‘transformed’ sometime since before we reached Nox.”

  Inelius spread his hands. “Sooo… maybe Tamiyo’s right. Maybe it responds to intent. To reason. And it shifts slowly—adapts—to what we actually need.”

  Everyone looked at him skeptically.

  “What?” he said. “It’s a theory. I’m not a scientist.”

  “Okay, let’s test that,” Raine piped up. She cupped her hands to her mouth and looked at the ceiling. “Ship? Your new name is The Cradle of Gravity! Can you paint that on the outside of the hull?”

  Everyone stared at her.

  Raine shrugged. “What? We hadn’t named it yet, and it fits even more now than the last ship. We found it in The Cradle. It runs on Soren’s gravity powers.”

  Amalia’s loud, insistent voice suddenly echoed from the hallway. "Make meee, a dildooo!"

  They all turned to see her standing just outside the room, both hands pressed flat against the corridor wall panel, yelling into it like it was a stubborn ordering kiosk.

  Veolo muttered under her breath, “Is she asking it to make one, or asking to be made into one?”

  Violet groaned. “What are you doing?”

  Amalia smacked the wall twice like it was a vending machine. “Go-go-gadget wall cock!”

  Raine clutched her forehead. “You’re asking the ancient, semi-sentient, reality-warping starship… for a sex toy.”

  Amalia snapped back, her voice sharper than usual, “Hey! We’re flying into Conservatory space, a place I doubt any of us are going to find fresh dick because they all hate anyone that isn’t human. There’s exactly three cocks on this damn ship: Brolgar feels like a dad to me, so no. Soren I don’t even need to explain, and Inelius is only available if you feel like sharing! Which none of us expect! But a girl has needs! So yes, if I need to fuck a starship to make it through this mission, then that’s what I’m going to do!”

  A stunned silence fell over the group.

  Violet stepped forward and put a hand on her sister's shoulder, her voice softening. “You a little stressed there, Sis?”

  The defiance drained out of Amalia in an instant. She shrank back, her voice small, almost timid. “This is the most dangerous mission I’ve ever been on. Maybe I’m a little scared.”

  Violet wrapped her arms around her sister, pulling her into a tight, protective hug. "I know," she murmured into Amalia's hair. "Me too."

  Soren’s eyes met Aurania’s across the room. He didn’t speak, but she felt the question in his gaze, a quiet hum through their connection.

  You okay?

  She gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod, but the weight of Amalia’s confession had settled in her own chest. This mission wasn’t just dangerous. It was a knife’s edge, and they were all walking it together.

  He moved first. He gave a quiet nod to Inelius—who was already stepping in to offer his own steadying presence to the sisters—then turned to Aurania. His voice was low, meant only for her.

  “Come with me.”

  It wasn’t a command, but it wasn’t a request either.

  He led her downstairs again and into the engine room. The great, black sphere of the core floated in the center of the chamber, its concentric rings rotating in a slow, silent dance. Veins of silver-gold light swirled beneath its surface, casting a soft, otherworldly glow across the polished deck.

  He stopped a few paces from it, turning to face her. The light from the core painted shifting patterns across his face, making his strange eyes seem even more luminous. He looked nervous, which wasn’t a word she often attached to him.

  “I had an idea,” he began, his voice quiet but steady. “After what Tamiyo said. About the ship responding to intent. To… reason.”

  “And I think,” he took a small step closer, “that if it can respond to a desire for comfort, or a need for something silly like a bathtub…” He laughed once, glancing away for a half-second. A flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes before they turned serious again. “Maybe it can help us. With this.” He gestured vaguely to himself, the power that simmered beneath his skin, the energy that sometimes burned too bright.

  She knew where this was going. Her heart began to beat a little faster, a low, heavy thrum that seemed to match the pulse of the core behind him.

  “You’re talking about a siphon,” she said, her voice flat, trying to keep the tremor out of it. “A way to ground your power.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe it’s more than that. This ship, this core… it’s a part of the same energy that’s inside me. If I’m connected to it, really connected, maybe it’s not about siphoning. Maybe it’s about… harmony. A way to balance the output.”

  She stared at him, at the raw hope in his expression. It was a beautiful, terrifying idea. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what would happen if you really let go while you were connected to it. You could tear this ship apart, Soren. You could tear us apart.”

  The memory of Piria—of his uncontrolled, apocalyptic rage—flashed in her mind, cold and sharp. She felt herself take a half-step back.

  He saw it. He saw the fear in her eyes, and his own expression fell. But he didn’t back down.

  “I know,” he said softly. “But what if we don’t try? Are we just going to spend the rest of our lives afraid to even touch each other?” He took another step forward, closing the distance she had created. His voice dropped to a raw whisper. “Isn’t it worth trying?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. He wasn’t pressuring—he was pleading, the same unspoken plea that crawled in her own mind.

  She should have said no. She should have reminded him of the mission, of the dangers, of what was at stake. But his eyes held her, and she saw not the weapon, not the untamed force—but the boy beneath, the man who just wanted to be close to her without fear.

  She gave a single, slow nod, her throat too tight to speak.

  The relief that flickered across his face nearly undid her. He closed the distance between them, hands cupping her face with a tenderness that belied his size and strength. His lips met hers, hesitant at first, then deepening as the tension between them finally gave way.

  Heat flared through her, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as his body pressed into hers. For a moment, there was nothing but the kiss, the way he held her as if she were something fragile, even though she’d never been fragile in her life.

  When she pulled back to breathe, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling. His hands trembled faintly. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.

  His hand found her waist, pulling her in slowly until their bodies were flush against each other once more. The low hum of the Aether Core seemed to deepen, the light from its swirling veins intensifying, wrapping them in a soft, golden aura.

  He kissed her again. Not hungry or desperate, but something deeper. Slower. A kiss of profound, bone-deep relief. It was a promise, a surrender, a question and an answer all at once.

  Her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers tangling in the silvery-white strands of his hair. The kiss deepened, and the heat that had been simmering between them for months finally caught fire.

  His lips claimed hers, heat coursing through her veins. For the first time, she didn’t push the desire down. She let it breathe, let it spark.

  She broke the kiss, her hands sliding over the hard planes of his chest, down to the hem of his shirt.

  “Off,” she ordered, her voice low, commanding.

  Before he could move, she tugged it over his head herself and tossed it aside. Then she pressed her palms against his bare skin, guiding him back, back, until the edge of the railing touched his legs.

  This is mine, she told herself. On my terms.

  She pushed him down to the floor, straddling his hips immediately. The sight of him beneath her—broad, powerful, but yielding—was intoxicating. She curled her hand around his jaw, forcing his gaze up to hers. “You follow my lead.”

  He nodded, eager, reverent, every line of his body promising surrender. And for a fleeting moment, she almost believed this could work. That she could contain him the way she contained any blade, any battle—through discipline, control, sheer force of will.

  But then his hands found her waist.

  At first they were tentative, steadying her. But as her pheromones thickened the air—unconscious, unstoppable—his grip tightened. His breath hitched, his pupils dilating as green-silver light flickered faintly in his irises.

  “Aurania…” His voice was husky, hungry.

  She tried to steady herself with a sharp look, but the heat in his gaze stole her breath. His fingers pressed harder at her hips, sliding up to her ribs, tracing the curve of muscle and fabric as if memorizing her. She told herself she’d allow it—for now. It was still her game. Still her rules.

  “Eyes up,” she murmured. “Stay with me.”

  He obeyed, but his gaze was molten, fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse stutter. His chest rose against hers, every breath sharp with need. When his thumb slipped under her robe, grazing bare skin where he breast met her ribs, she almost let the moment sweep her away.

  Almost.

  She caught his wrist, halting the motion. “Slow.”

  “Yes,” he whispered, but his voice cracked, and the green in his eyes flared brighter. His restraint was fraying, thread by thread.

  His other hand trailed lower, spanning the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. The shock of contact sent heat through her core. She pressed her forehead to his, fighting to steady both their breathing, but every second made it harder. The pheromones, the closeness, their raw need—they were colliding in a storm she hadn’t planned for.

  “Good,” she whispered, though the word trembled. “You’re doing good.”

  But then his lips brushed the corner of her mouth—feather-light, hesitant, and yet enough to ignite everything. Her discipline cracked, and she kissed him back. Harder than she intended.

  The kiss burned. His hands slid higher, anchoring her as if he might never let go. His tongue grazed hers and she tasted hunger, devotion, the storm threatening to break free. She should’ve pulled away then, should’ve reset the pace—but her body betrayed her, chasing the heat, pressing closer.

  Her nails dug into his shoulders. His growl vibrated against her lips. And when his hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head for more, she realized the balance had shifted. Her control—her blade—was no longer in her hand.

  Panic and desire warred inside her. His breath hitched again. His pupils widened, catching faint glimmers of green-silver in the dim light. The Aether Dust in his blood stirred in answer to her desire, resonating like a struck chord.

  She kissed him harder, trying to anchor herself, trying to keep the rhythm hers. His hands obeyed, holding her waist exactly where she guided them, his body moving with hers, never against.

  But the current bled through him anyway. His strength spiked without warning—not in rebellion, but in raw overflow. The floor plates shuddered beneath them as gravity warped, making it hard for her to even breathe.

  His breath caught. “Aurania—” His voice broke on her name, half-plea, half-terror.

  And then—everything shattered.

  His control slipped. The hum of the Aether Core spiked, the veins of light flashing brighter as the air crackled with raw energy.

  Her chest seized. The light in his eyes flared, blinding, uncontrollable. When his arms drew tighter, she felt the tremor—the desperate restraint, the way he was fighting himself not to hurt her.

  When she tried to move, she feared there was no escape. She strained, every muscle screaming, but it was like being held beneath a mountain.

  And for the first time in her life—Aurania Enderchild, War-Chieftess of Berilinsk—was utterly powerless.

  The ship trembled around them, as if responding to his loss of control, as if caught in the tide of his desire.

  Her chest constricted, terror rising cold and sharp. She wasn’t afraid of him. She was afraid of what loomed just beyond him, the abyss he carried inside. One heartbeat of lost control, and he could tear the world apart—tear her apart.

  Images of Piria flashed—crushed bodies, a broken planet, the storm of his unleashed fury.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath tore out. And before she even knew she’d spoken, the word ripped from her throat like a scream:

  “Sicura!”

  The effect was instantaneous.

  The glow in his eyes blinked out in no way Aurania had seen before, dying like a snuffed fire. The crushing gravity vanished, leaving her gasping.

  His hands fell away as if burned. His chest heaved, his face stricken—not with anger, but with hurt. Deep, raw hurt.

  The silence that followed was unbearable. The engine’s hum filled the space again, steady and cold, but her own pulse roared louder.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice broken. “I didn’t—”

  She still sat atop him, watching as his face contorted in tortured agony—a prisoner within his own skin. She could feel his anguish—his yearning for physical connection and how impossible it felt to achieve.

  He screamed.

  Not the god—he had locked the Aether Dust away.

  But the man was falling apart.

  Tears streamed down his face and he shook with sobs. She felt through the mental link his desire to self-isolate.

  “Just leave me alone,” he said, voice shuddering.

  “No.” She leaned forward, one hand bracing against the floor on each side of his head.

  “Leave!”

  “No!”

  Aurania wrapped her arms around him, pulling herself tight against him as he continued to cry.

  “Just let it all out,” she said gently.

  And he did.

  He cried like a man alone for 8,000 years. He cried tears of loneliness—every connection he had ever known gone—she felt his fear of losing any new ones he formed.

  She felt it all, sensed every thought, and let every tear soak into her chest as he sobbed like a man completely undone.

  Aurania petted his head, ran fingers through his hair, and let him take comfort in her presence in any way she could. But she would not leave him alone.

  She didn’t know how long she held him. Minutes, hours—time lost meaning in the rhythm of his sobs against her chest, the shudder of his breath, the way his massive frame curled inward like he was trying to make himself small. She had seen him endure hell no one else would survive, crush soldiers and bend reality to his will. But now he was just a boy with too much carved into his soul, unraveling in her arms.

  When the storm finally ebbed, he slumped against her, boneless and spent. His face was wet, his breath ragged, but the raw edge of his anguish had dulled into something quieter.

  Exhaustion.

  He lay still beneath her, his breath still hitching in ragged pulls, the storm inside him finally spent. The tears had stopped, but the raw, aching grief remained, a quiet hum in the space between them. Aurania didn't move. She just held him, her chin resting on the top of his head, her arms a steady, grounding weight. She felt the moment his shame began to curdle into apology, the words forming in his mind before he could speak.

  She tightened her grip, a silent command to stop.

  "Don't," she whispered, her voice rough. "Don't you dare apologize. Not for this."

  He was quiet, but she felt the question in his stillness. Why?

  She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, her own still shimmering with unshed tears. Her thumb brushed a stray tear from his cheek. “You didn’t fail,” she said softly, steel threaded into every word. “You stopped when I told you. You honored the boundary—the safe word you set. That’s control, Soren. That’s progress.”

  His throat worked, but no words came. Just a faint nod, his gaze flickering between her eyes as if searching for some proof that she wasn’t lying.

  She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead—a promise sealed in the quiet aftermath. "We'll figure it out," she murmured. "Together."

  He whimpered—a small, broken noise. But he nodded.

  She crawled off of him slowly, then stood, extending a hand out to help him up.

  When he was on his feet, she asked firmly, “Do you want to have sex with me? Or do you want to be physically close to me?”

  He looked small. Sheepish. But then his boyish, awkward charm poked through. “Both would be nice.”

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  Aurania grabbed him by the hand and turned to lead him from the engine room.

  “Where are we going?” He asked in a small voice.

  “To take a bath. Together.”