Chapter 8

Nyra

The descent is easier this time. My steps are lighter, quicker, even though I’m not in any rush. The weight of shame doesn’t drag at my ankles the way it used to. That first time felt like treason. Like sacrilege. Now it feels like...inevitability. My badge stays clipped inside my hoodie pocket. I don’t need it. I’m not here on assignment. Not here for work. I’m here because I can’t stay away. I’m here because this—the hush of the stairwell, the low hum in the walls, the rising tension in my spine—is the only place I feel real anymore. Every day that passes, I tell myself I won’t go back. I won’t press my ear to the thick steel. I won’t slip my hand down my waistband and pretend the echo of a growl is whispering right against my skin. And every night, I’m here again.

The descent is always the same. I know the path by heart now. I've walked it enough times to memorize it in muscle memory. Every turn. Every flicker of light in the stairwell. Every place the walls hum more than they should. The corridor that smells faintly of ozone. The step that creaks louder than the rest. Concrete stairs. Cracked handrail. Flickering light two floors down. But I know the exact number of steps now. Seventy-nine. Seventy-nine between Sublevel 1 and the sealed door of Sublevel 3. I know which ones creak when stepped on the right edge. I know how long to pause at each landing so I don’t arrive breathing too hard. Because breathing hard makes me weak. Makes me admit what this is.At the final landing, I slow. The air thickens like soup, dense and humid, flavored with something I don’t have a word for. Not quite blood. Not quite musk. Not quite heat. It’s him.

Sublevel 3 has become my addiction—half shadow, half ghost, all want. I stop on the final step before the last landing. My usual place. The door to the hall is ahead of me, but I don’t cross it. I never do.Because I know he’s not behind the door. He’s behind the wall. There’s a stretch of reinforced concrete to my right, unremarkable to anyone else. No vents, no markings, no indication of what’s buried beyond it—but I can feel him. In the air. In the crackle that lifts the fine hairs along my arms. I don’t need a map to know where he is. He’s close. I feel it in my marrow.

The scent is stronger tonight, stronger than it’s been since the first time I came down here trembling and breathless. It floods the stairwell like a mist—sharp and earthy, edged with something darker. Something that knots low in my gut and pulses hot through my bloodstream. He knows I’m here. He always does. I don’t know how. I don’t know what part of him is awake enough to notice, what sliver of instinct or bond or broken animal thread connects us. But I feel his awareness, low and humming behind the wall. Not curious. Not kind. Hungry.

I press my back to the cold steel rail behind me and slide to the floor. My knees bend, my legs part. My hoodie bunches around my hips, sleeves shoved back to my elbows. I should leave. I should stop. But every time I promise myself I will, I stay longer. Tonight, I want to know how long I can stay. How far I’ll go. My fingers slip under the waistband of my leggings, already damp from anticipation. I don’t tease. I don’t test. I press deep, grind slow. There’s no guilt left—not really. Just the slow dissolve of restraint, the drip-drip-drip of obsession eroding everything else. I whisper his name. Not out loud. Not this time. But it curls on the edge of my thoughts, dangerous and warm. Rane. The rhythm of my hand quickens, chasing sensation. I picture him on the other side of the wall—caged and feral, hands fisted at his sides, heat rising off his skin in waves. I imagine the growl in his throat that didn’t come tonight, the one that wrecked me days ago. I imagine the eyes. The collar. The power. I want him to hear me. To feel me. My head tips back against the stair rail, the pressure mounting too fast. I bite down hard on my lip to stay silent, but a whimper escapes anyway, high and thin. I twist my wrist and roll my hips, not caring that the stairwell is unforgiving against my spine.

He doesn’t growl. Doesn’t move. But his scent thickens even more—undeniably, violently. It rushes through the air like a pulse, like a claim. I know that scent. I crave it. And it hits me so hard, I nearly forget to breathe. My orgasm slams into me like a freight train. There’s no build this time, no warning. Just a sharp snap of muscle, a rush of heat, a sound torn from my throat as my body breaks open and clamps down. I dig my heels into the steel stair, riding it out with both hands gripping my thigh, thighs shaking around the wet mess of my own hand. When I finally breathe again, I’m dizzy. Disoriented. My head lolls against the rail, sweat cooling too fast on my neck.I should leave but I don’t. I wipe my hand on the inside of my hoodie, then hug my knees to my chest, breathing through the aftershocks. The scent still lingers. H

He’s still there. Watching, somehow. Waiting.

What is he thinking, on the other side of the wall?

Does he want me here?

Or does he hate me for it?

I’ve never spoken to him. Not really. Not like I want to. But I’ve whispered things. Phrases. Nonsense. Apologies I never understand until after they’re said. I don’t know what this is. I don’t mean to use you. I just—But I always come back. And he’s always here. It's not like he has a choice. Tonight, I dare something more. I shift forward, belly to the floor, crawling closer to the wall. The cold concrete numbs my skin. I press my palm to the seam between slabs and whisper.

“Are you real?”

It’s stupid.

Reckless.

And still—A scrape.

A thud. Not loud. Not close.

The sound sends lightning through my spine. My thighs tighten again. I bite back a moan, furious that I could be turned on again, so soon, like I didn’t just fall apart on these very stairs.

“Do you know me?” I breathe. No answer. Just silence. And yet… the scent shifts again. Stronger. Uncontainable. Like he does know me. Like he’s been waiting longer than I have. I push to my feet on legs that barely hold. My hand lingers against the wall, and I imagine his palm on the other side, mirroring mine. It’s a lie, probably. A fantasy I keep feeding because I’m too far gone to stop. But tonight, I don’t care. Whatever this is, it’s mine. I turn, climb the stairs one at a time, not bothering to look back. The scent follows.