CHAPTER 4
ARIA
I stirred slowly, my limbs heavy, as if weighed down by thick, suffocating sleep.
My lashes fluttered open, and I saw the sterile white ceiling above me.
The light was soft but cold, clinical—nothing like the dark chamber where I’d blacked out.
My head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and my throat felt dry and scratchy.
Where am I…?
Sudden flashes of memory hit me like lightning: a dark room.
Chains. Heat. His eyes. My hands. My mouth. My shame.
I turned my head with effort—my neck stiff—and saw the Doctor standing beside the bed.
His face was calm, but there was a flicker of concern beneath the surface.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he said, his voice a practised blend of authority and sympathy.
“You gave us quite a scare. But I have good news—our examinations revealed nothing unusual. Your body is functioning as it should.”
I blinked at him, trying to clear the fog clouding my mind.
The words barely registered.
Nothing unusual?
I almost wanted to laugh.
How could he say that when nothing felt normal anymore?
My body didn’t feel like mine—not since I’d stepped into that chamber.
And functioning as it should?
No. That wasn’t right.
It didn’t explain why my body had betrayed me.
Why did it want him?
A complete stranger.
“I…” My lips parted, my voice hoarse.
“What happened to me?” I asked, voice low and shaky, fingers twisting the blanket covering my legs.
“I don’t act like that… not ever. I’ve never felt anything like it before. It didn’t even feel like me.”
My words tumbled out in a rush, trembling with disbelief.
“It was like I was watching someone else in my body—doing things I shouldn’t even be thinking about. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. Why would I… why would I do something like that?”
The Doctor didn’t answer right away.
He stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, his expression unreadable.
His silence twisted my stomach.
Was he judging me?
Did he think I was broken?
Or worse—did he know something he wasn’t telling me?
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
He finally spoke, measured and clinical.
“We’re still reviewing the data, but there was no evidence of toxins or hormonal tampering. It appears your reaction was… spontaneous.”
“Spontaneous?” I echoed, disbelief sharp in my voice.
“You’re saying I chose to act like that? That I wanted to—”
I cut myself off, the memory of my mouth on the stranger’s chest flashing in my mind.
My cheeks burned.
“No. That’s not right. Something happened to me in that room. I wasn’t in control. It felt like something inside me just… snapped.”
I rubbed my arms as if I could scrub the memory away.
“I don’t even know who I was in that moment.”
I turned my face away, heat rushing to my cheeks—not just embarrassment but shame.
I remembered how my fingers had traced the lines of his chest, how the ridges of muscle had trembled beneath my touch.
The taste of his skin.
The heat of him.
And worse, the need flooded through me, making me forget reason and control.
I had wanted him.
Desperately. Rawly. Shamefully.
And it terrified me.
How had I been so forward?
So uninhibited?
I’d never done anything like that before, and the memory of my behaviour left me both ashamed and strangely exhilarated.
Noticing my discomfort, the Doctor quickly shifted the conversation.
“Now that you’re awake, there are some matters we need to discuss. All future ‘sampling’ will become your responsibility. You seem to have a unique connection with our subject, and your presence appears beneficial to his… recovery.”
My gaze snapped back to him.
“What?” I asked, sharper than I intended.
“Sampling?”
“Yes,” the Doctor replied matter-of-factly.
“You will need to tend to his needs and ensure his well-being. It’s crucial for our research.”
“But—”
“It’s protocol,” he said gently, but with finality.
“He responded… uniquely to you. None of our other handlers triggered such a strong physiological connection. The Board believes a consistent point of contact may help regulate his behaviour.”
I opened my mouth to protest but found no words.
What could I say?
That I’d practically thrown myself at a test subject?
I wasn’t sure who I’d been in that room.
So I nodded stiffly.
……
The next morning, I stood before the reinforced door to the lower chamber, trying to steady my racing heart.
This time, the lights were on.
No shadows.
No mystery.
But the dread pooling in my belly didn’t lessen.
The moment the door slid open, a sterile breeze met my face, tinged with something faintly coppery—blood.
My eyes struggled to adjust, and when they finally did, I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth as the full horror of his body came into focus.
He was still hanging, restrained by thick chains anchored into the wall, his massive form slumped forward slightly.
But now, bathed in harsh light, every brutal mark was undeniable—dark bruises blossomed across his ribs like angry storms, long welts slashed across his back in jagged lines, and deep gashes crusted with dried blood tore into his skin.
His flesh was a brutal canvas of violence, each wound telling a story of torment I had somehow missed before.
“Oh my god…” I whispered, heart pounding as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me.
Without thinking, I turned and hurried to the supply cabinet, my fingers fumbling as I grabbed the first aid kit, the cold plastic feeling surreal in my shaking hands.
Returning to his side, I crouched down, fingers trembling as I uncapped the antiseptic, steeling myself to face the pain etched into his skin.
Then—
A sharp intake of breath.
His eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, fixing me with a predatory, alert gaze.
There was a wildness in his eyes—a raw, feral hunger that sent a cold shiver racing down my spine.
I froze.
The antiseptic pad trembled between my fingers, hovering inches from his battered skin.
My breath hitched as his gaze locked onto mine—sharp and unblinking, like a predator sizing up prey.
“Um… hi,” I said, voice barely a whisper.
“I-I was just… you’re hurt, and I thought I should…”
My words tangled and fell apart under the weight of his silence.
His eyes dropped briefly to the pad in my hand, then slowly lifted back to mine, unreadable.
“I won’t hurt you,” I blurted, raising my hands slightly, the pad still between my fingers.
“I’m just here to help you,” I added, forcing a weak smile, though my pulse pounded in my ears.
He said nothing.
“I’m just going to clean your wounds… okay?”
I moved slowly, hands trembling as I reached for the supplies I’d brought.
His eyes tracked every move like a wolf assessing prey—or maybe something else.
Curiosity. Hunger. Recognition?
He remembers me.
I moved carefully, not wanting to startle him. His eyes followed me, sharp and intense, making my skin prickle.
I cleaned his wounds slowly, trying to stay focused.
My hands were steady, but my heart wasn’t.
The way he watched me—silent, intense—made the air feel heavier.
Still, he didn’t pull away.
There was something between us now. Not quite trust, but close.
Even bruised and bound, he gave off a quiet strength that unsettled me… yet made me feel oddly safe.
“You’re not what I expected,” I said quietly, more to myself than him.
“I don’t know what they’ve done to you, but…”
He shifted so subtly I almost missed it.
His head tilted, nostrils flaring as if catching a scent.
Then I felt it.
His breath was on my neck.
I stiffened.
He’s smelling me.
My blood froze.
Before I could react, he dragged his tongue across the sensitive skin of my neck, the rough texture sending shivers down my spine.
It was intimate. Invasive. Strangely arousing.
No one had ever touched me like that, and the primal nature of his action left me breathless.
My hand flew to my throat, fingers trembling.
“W-What are you doing?” I gasped, voice barely more than a breath.
He didn’t answer.
“Please,” I whispered, voice cracking.
“Don’t…”
That made him pause.
His brows knit together, a flicker of confusion crossing his face like he didn’t understand my fear.
Then slowly, silently, he leaned closer—not with menace, but curiosity.
His nose brushed against the side of my neck, warm and insistent, as if trying to memorize the scent of me.