Chapter 31
Chapter 31
Nyra
The halls are silent in that way they only get after curfew—when even the hum of the vents feels too loud, too noticeable. My shoes barely make a sound on the concrete, but I still catch myself holding my breath at every corner, listening for footsteps that aren’t mine. It’s been two nights since the outburst. Two nights since he slammed into the door, since his voice tore through the sedation and restraints, raw and wild and clawing straight into me. Two nights of lying in bed with my pulse hammering, too afraid—and too weak—to come back down here. But the silence of staying away was worse than the danger of returning.
The door to his hall feels heavier to push open tonight, though I know it’s just the weight of hesitation. My hesitation. The air inside is colder, sharper, and the scent hits me immediately—the same subtle thread I’ve been chasing for days. My pulse trips over itself. He’s there, behind the door. Silent. I slide into place against the cool metal, the way I always do. My voice comes low, careful, unsure if he’ll listen after my absence.
“I saw the gamma again that day.”
Nothing. Not yet. I rest my head back against the door, telling him about the feed—how they’d seen the gamma talking but couldn’t hear what he said, how Teyla questioned me about it. My throat feels tight as I admit the lie I gave her.
“They asked me and I told them he just wanted to know about the growl the other day.”
It’s not the truth, but it’s safer this way. I let the words trail off, and for a moment there’s only the steady thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Then—soft, almost like an exhale—
“Gone.”
The sound of it slips under my skin. I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” I murmur. “I—” My throat tightens. “I wasn’t… well. I think I’m losing my mind. I had symptoms. Real ones. I’m human, Rane. Humans don’t get heat. And even if we could, why now? It doesn't make any sense.”
I press my palm to the door. It’s cool, steady, nothing like my own fevered skin had been.
“I felt like I was burning alive,” I whisper. “Like something was pulling me apart from the inside. I thought if I gave in, it would stop. It didn’t.”
I lean my forehead to the metal. “I can’t have that happen again.”
Silence.
“I might have to… space my visits,” I admit, the words bitter in my mouth. “If you keep scaring them, they’ll watch you more. Watch me more.”
The pause stretches long enough that I almost think he won’t answer. And then—
“Calm.”
I don’t move right away. His word—calm—still hangs between us, fragile and impossible to pin down. It’s not a question. Not exactly. It’s not even reassurance. It’s something else. Something I can’t name without feeling it shift inside me. I stay there with my forehead against the door, breathing him in through the seams. My pulse slows, but only a little. Every second feels stretched thin, like the hall itself is holding its breath with me.
“I don’t understand what’s happening to me,” I say quietly. “And I don’t think you do, either.”
There’s no answer this time. Not even the sound of movement. But I can feel him there—feel that weight, that watching. The pull is worse when he’s quiet. It coils in the space between us, invisible but alive, humming like a wire just shy of snapping. My symptoms are gone—no fever, no ache—but the absence of them feels wrong, like they’ve gone to ground, waiting.
I draw in a slow breath and let it out against the metal. “Something’s happening. Between us.” The confession tastes dangerous. “I don’t know what it is. I just know… it’s not stopping.”
The air feels heavier. Denser. Like he’s leaning in on the other side without touching the door. My palm flattens against it anyway. I can’t stop myself. If I stay here long enough, I know I’ll start talking about things I shouldn’t—about the dream-memories, the way they burned into me. About how I still feel his restraints in my own wrists. About how wrong it is that I’m starting to need this—need him—more than anything else in my life. I force myself to push off the door, the loss immediate, like stepping out of a warm current into cold air.
“Goodnight,” I murmur.
Nothing follows me out. But the pull stays, stretching from him to me, all the way up the empty hall. I make it halfway up the stairs before stopping. My hand tightens on the rail. I should keep going. I know I should. But there’s this ache low in my chest that doesn’t ease just because I put distance between us. If anything, it sharpens—pulls harder. I glance back toward the darkened hall, even though I can’t see the door from here. I feel it anyway. Him.
It’s in the way my body keeps tilting toward that direction, like the air up here is thinner and my lungs don’t work right without his shadow in the periphery. I hate that I almost turn around. Hate that I’m standing here, toes pressed against the edge of a decision that shouldn’t even be on the table.
He’s dangerous. I’m human. And still, every cell in me feels wound toward him like wire around a core. The stairs creak under my weight as I force myself to keep climbing. Each step feels like I’m pulling teeth out of my own head.
When I reach my room, I lock the door behind me and lean against it, pressing my palms flat to the cool surface. I tell myself I’m sealing myself away from him. But the truth is… it’s so I can pretend I’m choosing to stay out instead of being kept out. I crawl into bed without changing. The sheets are cold and I don’t bother. My mind won’t settle anyway. Rane's voice circles back.
Gone.
Did he actually notice? Did he missed me ? I keep thinking about him. The way his breathing shifted when I mentioned the growl. The way his voice—low and measured—had said calm like it meant something only the two of us could understand. I’m starting to believe that whatever is happening to me is happening to him, too. But that thought is dangerous, because if it’s true… someone will notice.
And when they do, they won’t hesitate to sever it. Or use it against us.