Chapter 6

Chapter 6
Nyra
I wake to the sound of my own breath, shallow and hot against the pillow. My legs are tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat, thighs pressed tight like my body’s still chasing something it didn’t catch. I don’t remember the dream, but I don’t have to. I know who it was. I know what it was. Rane. The name haunts the edge of every thought, pulsing like need. I roll over and pull the covers tighter, hoping to suffocate it, but the ache doesn’t ease. The memory doesn’t fade. Not even in the morning.

I try to stay busy. Wipe down stations that are already clean. Reorganize the intake storage room. Volunteer to cover someone’s lunch break. I ask for more hours, not harder shifts—just more time to keep moving so I don’t think. So I don’t want. But I do. Even now, my skin prickles every time I pass a vent. Every time I catch the barest echo of scent that shouldn’t linger, but does. A scent only I seem to notice. His. It’s getting harder to resist. I feel it all the time now. In my bones. In my throat. In my cunt. I grip the edge of a cabinet until my knuckles go white, force myself to breathe through it. No one notices. No one ever does. They think I’m focused. Diligent. Maybe even dedicated. I’m none of those things. I’m unraveling.

At the end of my shift, I don’t hesitate. I don’t even pretend to shower. I change into dark clothes and move like someone with purpose, like someone whose nerves haven’t been fraying all day from nothing but phantom memory and need. The guards at the back are too busy arguing over a card game to notice me slipping into the service stairwell. Good. I don’t want witnesses. I don’t want questions. Each floor down feels heavier. I hold the railing loosely, footsteps quiet against the metal stairs. By Sublevel 1, the light starts to flicker. By Sublevel 2, the air tastes like static and dust. And by the time I reach the sealed landing of Sublevel 3, my pulse is pounding between my legs. He’s here. Somewhere past that door. Somewhere behind reinforced steel and security no one else bothers with because no one else wants to be down here. But I do. I slide down to sit on the step, back pressed to the wall, knees pulled in. It’s dark and damp, and there’s a scent in the air that isn't fully his but close enough to burn. I press my hand between my thighs, needing no more permission than that. My leggings stretch just enough to slide fingers inside the waistband, touch bare heat. I’m already wet. I’ve been wet since this morning. Since before. Since the moment I smelled him again.

“Rane,” I whisper. Just the name. Not a full sentence. Not a confession. Just a prayer with teeth. My fingers move in slow, small circles. I let my head fall back, eyes closed, thighs parted wider. It’s easier this time. No shame. No guilt. Just that need—familiar now. Lingering. Almost comforting in its desperation.

“I know you hear me,” I breathe. “I know you feel this.” A whisper for him, low and shaky. I don’t know if he’s behind that wall. I don’t know if he’s awake or out of his mind, free or restrained.The coil tightens deep in my core. My hips jerk forward, chasing more. I pull harder, faster, picturing him, the weight of those eyes, the heat that made me come so hard last time it left me limping.

“I shouldn’t want this,” I whisper, gasping now. “But I do.”

My free hand claws against the wall behind me. I arch and moan and whimper his name again—softer, then louder. It feels like giving in. Like offering something I can’t take back. And I don’t care. I want him to know. I want him to hear me. I come hard, muscles tensing, breath caught in my throat, back bowed. There’s no growl this time. Just the empty echo of my own voice and the shameful wet sound of my fingers moving faster, working through the release, wringing out every last drop. When it’s over, I collapse against the cold wall, flushed and trembling. But I don’t leave. Not right away.

I stay there, panting. Listening. Waiting. My hand pulls free, slick and shaky, and I tuck my legs up to my chest, curling in. For a moment, I let myself imagine a world where I could go to him. Where that door would open, and his eyes would be waiting, and he wouldn’t be a caged monster, and I wouldn’t be whatever I’ve become. But that’s not this world. In this world, I have to go back upstairs before someone finds me here. Before I do something worse. Before I ask for something I can’t survive.

The next day is worse. Not because I’m tired, or sore, or because I keep finding myself drifting into blank stares when someone’s talking. It’s worse because I want to go back.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Every hour that ticks by feels like an itch I can’t scratch unless I’m near him. Every meaningless task—every sterilized shift and silent dinner—feels like I’m dying just a little bit more. But I’m not allowed to ask about Sublevel 3. No one is. It’s not officially on my clearance path. Not unless I submit an application for handler rotation. And I can’t do that. Not yet. I told them I’d work more hours. I said I’d help wherever they needed. But harder jobs? Handling wolves on-site? I’m not ready. I’m not brave. I’m just obsessed. So I sneak instead. Nights only. Stairwell only. I touch myself to his ghost and whisper secrets through the air vent and pretend it’s normal. Sometimes I hear a thud. A scrape. A sound I can’t identify that makes my body pulse. Sometimes I leave shaking. Sometimes I don’t leave at all until the lights start to flicker warning orange and I know I’m about to get caught. And sometimes—Sometimes, I think I hear him move.

That’s when it gets hard to breathe. That’s when my body begs me to open the door. To see what’s behind it. To find out if he’s real or if I made it all up. But I don’t. Not yet. I just come to the edge of that madness again and again and again. And tell myself I’m not falling. Even as I feel the ground give out from under me.