CHAPTER 9
ARIA
The lab around us seemed to shift, the familiar hum of equipment suddenly sounding sinister. My mouth went dry as understanding began to dawn—terrible, impossible understanding. His voice dropped to a whisper that made my skin crawl.
My hand jerked away from him, but he caught my wrist, grip firm but not painful.
"Let me go." My voice shook with a mixture of fear and fury.
My fingers trembled slightly as I removed the collection vial, the glass still warm through the barrier of my glove.
I stared at it for a second too long, my breath catching—heat crawling up the back of my neck like a slow, unwelcome flush.
Focus. Just focus.
The cap twisted shut with a sharp click—usually bringing order, but today it felt like a warning.
"Subject 87-A," I murmured, peeling the label with deliberate precision. "Cycle four. Mid-rut onset. Sample complete." The words felt clinical in my mouth, like armour.
As I turned to leave, heat rolled over my neck—not clinical warmth, but something wet. Hot. Deliberate.
His mouth.
He pressed his lips to my skin, breath shaky against the sensitive spot beneath my ear. His tongue slid across my neck, making my entire body jolt.
I went still, every muscle wire-tight.
This isn't supposed to happen.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Because the worst part wasn't that he was touching me.
It's that I didn't want him to stop.
He movements fluid and predatory. "I tried to warn you. The way I responded to you, the intensity... it wasn't just rut, Aria. We're already bonded."
And then I realize—
It’s his mouth.
His mouth is on me.
He’s pressing his lips to my skin—open, warm, and unshy about it.
His breath is hot, almost shaky, and then his tongue—God, his tongue—slides across the sensitive spot just beneath my ear in a way that makes my entire body jolt.
A chill runs straight down my spine, even as heat flares everywhere else.
I go still, every muscle pulled tight like a wire ready to snap.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
But I can’t move.
I can barely breathe.
No. No, no, no—
My body leans away instinctively, or tries to.
Muscles tense to retreat, to pull back, but he’s close—too close—and his heat surrounds me like a storm.
Then he lifted his head.
And kissed me.
My first kiss with any male—muffled through the surgical mask I'd forgotten I wore. Soft, awkward. Despite the barrier, I felt everything: the shape of his lips, the desperate gentleness, the shocking intimacy of being chosen.
"This is wrong," I whispered against his lips, even as my hands gripped his shoulders.
"Nothing about this feels wrong," he growled, voice rough with need.
Heat bloomed across my cheeks. His scent—musky, primal—clouded my judgment as his lips moved experimentally against mine.
I like it. The admission terrified me. I liked how he made me feel—desired, wanted, needed.
My knees weaken, the traitorous heat low in my belly surges again, and goosebumps race across my arms.
"You're mine."
The possessive word should have alarmed me. Instead, heat pooled low in my belly.
His mouth left mine, trailing kisses down my jaw. I tilted my head back, and he took advantage, teeth nipping sensitive skin.
A moan escaped—foreign and wanton. He responded with a growl, hands tightening on my hips.
This is insane. I'm making out with a subject in my lab.
But it felt right in ways that terrified me.
His touch was confident, sure, taking his time despite his obvious need. I pushed him back, breathing heavily.
"Wait," I gasped. "I need to think—"
"Don't think." His eyes burned into mine. "For once, just feel."
I'm a woman, and he's a man, his lips are gentle but insistent, exploring mine with a curiosity that matches my own. I like the way he makes me feel—desired, wanted, needed. My hands, which were initially pressed against his chest in a vain attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism, now grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. My hand, almost of its own accord, slides up the back of his head, threading into the wild strands of his hair. He's kissing me, and I like it.
I can feel the hard planes of his body, the corded muscles beneath his skin, and it sends a thrill through me.
This is crazy, I think.
I'm kissing a specimen.
A subject of my research.
But god, it feels good.
His hands roam my back, tracing the curve of my spine, and I arch into him, wanting more.
Needing more.
This is insane, I think.
I'm making out with a Neanderthal in a lab. But it feels so right.
I can feel his need, his desperation, but he's taking his time, savouring me, and it's driving me wild. I push him back, my breathing heavy, my body aching with need.