Chapter 5: Morning After
The first thing he was aware of was the weight of her in his arms. The second was the light—a pale, insistent gold that cut through the window and painted stripes across the tangled sheets and the floor. Kylo opened his eyes. His knot had receded hours ago, the frantic, biological imperative sated, leaving behind a heavy, possessive calm.
Rey was still asleep, curled against his chest, her back to him. Her breathing was deep and even. The sheet had slipped down to her waist, and the morning sun fell directly across the landscape of her spine.
That’s when he saw them.
A fine, silvery line just below her left shoulder blade. Another, thicker and angrier, crossing her ribs. A small, puckered divot near the small of her back. A constellation of old pain etched into her skin. Each one a story he hadn’t been told. A history of hurt that had nothing to do with him. A cold, sharp anger coiled in his gut, aimed at every unknown person who had ever put their hands on her.
His own fingers, resting on her hip, tightened almost imperceptibly. The urge to wake her and demand the story of every mark was a physical ache. But he stayed still, watching the light trace the faint ridges, turning the silver scars to gold.
This changed nothing. It changed everything.
The heat had been a temporary madness, a biological trap. This, the quiet aftermath in the sunlit quiet of her shabby apartment, was something else. This was a choice. She was fierce and damaged and utterly, completely his. The bond wasn't just a pull; it was a fact. A fundamental law of his existence he had only just understood.
He was keeping her.
A soft sigh escaped her lips, and her body shifted, tensing as consciousness returned. He felt the exact moment she realized where she was, who she was with. Her breathing hitched. The languid warmth leaching from her muscles was replaced by a rigid alertness.
She didn't pull away immediately. She just went still, every line of her back communicating a wariness so deep it was etched into her bones.
"Don't," she said, her voice rough with sleep. It was barely a whisper.
"Don't what?" His own voice was a low rumble, vibrating through her back into his chest.
"Don't… whatever you're thinking. Just don't."
He shifted, rolling her onto her back before she could resist. The sheet pooled around her waist. Her eyes, wide and wary in the morning light, met his. She looked young. Tired. The defiance from the garage was banked, hidden behind a wall of pure, overwhelmed fatigue.
"I'm thinking you have scars," he said, his gaze dropping to her shoulder, then back to her face. "Who gave them to you?"
Her expression shuttered closed. "None of your business."
"It is my business." He said it simply, a statement of fact. He traced the line on her ribs with a single fingertip, feeling her flinch. "Everything about you is my business now."
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her. "You have got to be kidding me. You think one heat cycle gives you ownership papers?" She tried to sit up, to put distance between them, but his arm around her waist was an iron bar.
"Last night you seemed to agree."
"Last night I was out of my mind!" she snapped, color flooding her cheeks. "That wasn't me. That was… biology. A malfunction. It's over."
He looked at her, at the pulse hammering in her throat, at the way her scent still carried the faint, sweet undertone of his claim mixed with her own sharp panic. "It's not over." He leaned in, his nose brushing the gland on her neck, inhaling deeply. "You still smell like me."
She shoved at his chest, a useless, frantic gesture. "Get off me. I need a shower. I need to go to work. I need you to get the hell out of my apartment."
He didn't move. He just watched her struggle, the sunlight catching the gold in her hazel eyes. "You're not going to work today."
"The hell I'm not. Maz will be—"
"Maz knows what you are. What we are. She won't be surprised." He finally released her, sitting up in one fluid motion. The sheet fell away, and the cool morning air hit his skin. He saw her eyes flick over his bare torso, a quick, involuntary glance, before she looked away, scowling.
He stood, a tower of pale skin and dark intention in her small room. He found his trousers from the night before and pulled them on. "Get dressed. We're leaving."
Rey stared at him, pulling the sheet up to her chin like a shield. "Leaving? Leaving to where? I'm not going anywhere with you."
"You are." He picked up his shirt from the floor but didn't put it on. "You can pack a bag, or I can carry you out of here with nothing. Your choice."
"This is insane. You can't just… kidnap me!" Her voice rose, edged with real fear now.
"It's not kidnapping." He turned to face her fully, his expression unreadable. "It's claiming. This place…" He gestured around the room, at the patched couch, the starship posters, the struggling plant on the windowsill. "It's not safe. It's not enough. You're coming with me."
"Or what?" she challenged, her chin lifting. "You'll force me?"
A shadow of something dangerous crossed his face. "I won't have to." He took a step toward the bed, his presence sucking the air from the room. "The bond will do it for me. You can fight it, Rey. You can make it hurt. Or you can accept it. But you will come with me. Today."
He left her there, sitting in the rumpled bed that smelled of their sex, the morning sun now feeling cold and exposing. She heard the faint sound of the kettle being filled in her tiny kitchen. He was making coffee. As if this was a normal morning. As if he belonged here.
Her hands trembled as she clutched the sheet. Her body, the traitor, felt a perverse sense of calm at his nearness, a soothing balm against the raw panic in her mind. He was right. The pull was still there, a thick, golden cord wrapped around her spine, tugging her toward him.
She could scream. She could call the police. But what would she say? An Alpha, her fated mate, had claimed her during her heat and now wanted to take her from her shitty apartment? They’d laugh. Or worse, they’d side with him.
Tears of sheer frustration pricked at her eyes. She looked around at her sanctuary, her hard-won independence. The fight was leaching out of her, replaced by a terrifying, numb resignation.
He was keeping her. And the most horrifying part, the secret she would claw out her own tongue before admitting, was that a tiny, shattered piece of her felt relief.
The relief was a shameful warmth in her veins, a sedative that made her limbs feel heavy and her resolve feel thin. She shoved it down, locking it away behind a wall of practiced resentment. With a sharp, jerky movement, she swung her legs out of bed, clutching the sheet around herself like a cloak.
She didn’t look at him as she marched to the bathroom. The shower hissed to life, and she stood under the spray for a long time, scrubbing until her skin was pink. She used the cheap, citrus-scented soap she loved, trying to erase the last traces of cedar and dominance from her pores. It was a futile effort, like trying to wash away a tattoo.
She took her time drying off, meticulously rubbing the towel over every inch of her skin. She brushed her teeth slowly, counted the strokes. She dressed in the worn-out jeans and soft t-shirt she’d left on the hook, the familiar fabrics a small comfort. Every action was a deliberate delay, a tiny rebellion.
When she finally emerged, her hair damp and dripping onto her shoulders, he was exactly where she’d left him. He sat on the edge of her worn-out couch, a stark, dramatic figure amidst her cozy chaos. He’d put his black shirt back on, but he hadn’t buttoned it, the pale expanse of his chest and the scars there still on display.
He said nothing. He just watched her, his dark eyes tracking her movements with an unnerving, predatory calm.
Rey went to her small closet and pulled out a duffel bag. She unzipped it with a loud, angry rip. She expected a command. A criticism. For him to tell her to hurry up. The silence was somehow worse. It stretched, thin and tight, until she could hear the hum of her old refrigerator.
She started with her tools, the heavy metal clanking as she placed her favorite wrench set at the bottom of the bag. Then she moved to her dresser, folding a few pairs of jeans with painstaking slowness. She picked up a sweater, shook it out, refolded it. She could feel his gaze on her back, a physical pressure between her shoulder blades.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just sat, a statue of immense patience, while she performed the theater of her resistance.
She walked to the windowsill and picked up her small, struggling succulent. She held the cheap terracotta pot in her hands, her thumbs stroking the rough clay. It was a ridiculous thing to pack. It was just a plant. But it was her plant. She had nursed it back from near death. She placed it carefully on top of her clothes in the duffel bag.
Still, he offered nothing. No sigh of impatience. No tap of a foot. The only sound was her own breathing, which was starting to sound embarrassingly loud and ragged in the quiet room.
This wasn’t going how she’d planned. His stillness was dismantling her. She was putting on a show for an audience that refused to react, and the frustration was curdling inside her, hot and sharp. She was waiting for the explosion, for the Alpha command that would justify her rage.
It never came.
She zipped the bag closed with a final, defeated sound. The duffel was only half full. She had run out of things to deliberately, slowly pack. She had run out of ways to prolong this. She stood there, her hand on the bag’s strap, staring at the floor.
The silence became unbearable. It was a void he was perfectly content to inhabit, and it was driving her insane.
“Alright,” she finally snapped, the word cracking in the quiet room. She lifted her head and glared at him, exasperated by her own futile performance. “I’m ready. Let’s just get this over with.”