Chapter 68: The Bonding
The kitchen was a landmine of pastel colors and cheerful dish towels. Rhys stood before the stainless-steel refrigerator, a monolith of utilitarianism in the soft-edged room, and tried to reconcile the space with the woman hovering at his elbow. Aurora’s scent—now irrevocably twined with his own musk and engine grease—clung to everything. It was in the air, on his skin, a permanent echo in his sinuses.“I have eggs,” she said, peering around his bicep. “And bread. Maybe some bacon in the freezer?”
He grunted, pulling out the carton of eggs.The simple, physical task was a relief.Something with clear steps. Crack, whisk, cook. “Skillet?”
She ducked around him, her small body brushing against his side, and the bond flared like a tripped wire. A flash of her nervousness, a bright spike of her pleasure at the casual contact. He clenched his jaw, focusing on the cool weight of the cast iron pan she handed him. The tattooed snakes on his forearm seemed to coil as he flexed, setting the pan on the burner.The gas flame hissed to life.A normal sound. “You eat,” he said, not looking at her.“When you’re in heat. You need to.”
“I know. I just… usually I don’t want to.” She leaned against the counter beside him, watching his hands. “It feels different this time.”
He cracked an egg one-handed against the rim of the pan.The sizzle was immediate. “Different how.”
“Not so lonely.” The admission was quiet, offered like a secret.
His next crack was harder, a piece of shell fragmenting into the yolk.He fished it out with a calloused finger. He didn’t have an answer for that. The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of cooking.He made scrambled eggs, simple, something he couldn’t mess up. He found butter, salt, a splash of milk from a nearly-empty carton. The motions were automatic, giving his mind time to churn.He could feel her.Not just beside him, but in him. A low-grade emotional static. Right now it was contentment, layered with a thread of anxiety aimed directly at him. It was like having a radio tuned to a station that only played the weather of her soul.Disconcerting.Invasive.
He scooped the eggs onto two plates, found the toaster, shoved bread in.The domesticity of it all was profoundly weird. He’d never made breakfast for his ex.Not once.
“Here.” He slid a plate across the small breakfast bar to her.She climbed onto a stool, pulling her knees up. She ate with small, neat bites, watching him over the edge of her plate. The bond hummed with a simple, appreciative pleasure.The food was good.She was safe.He was here.
Rhys ate standing up, leaning against the opposite counter.The eggs tasted like nothing. His appetite was gone, replaced by a restless energy. The four walls of her cozy apartment were starting to feel like the sides of a beautifully decorated box.
“Your phone’s been buzzing,” she murmured, pointing her fork at the living room couch where his jeans were discarded.Probably the shop. Leo, his head mechanic, knew better than to call on a Sunday unless it was an emergency.Which meant it was an emergency. A real-world problem.Something with a tangible solution.
He set his plate down, half-eaten, and walked into the living room.The fabric of his discarded jeans was cool.He dug the phone out. Seven missed calls.All Leo.Three text messages: Boss. Hydraulic lift shit the bed.Customer’s classic Mustang is stuck six feet in the air. We gotta get the parts guy on a Sunday, need your authorization.A real problem.A lift he could fix. A Mustang he could lower safely.A world where he knew the rules.
Aurora had come to the doorway, her blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She was reading his posture, the shift in his scent.The bond picked up his sharp focus, his instinct to move, to solve. Her static shifted, warmed with understanding, then chilled with a sudden, quiet dread.
“You have to go,” she said.It wasn’t a question.“The shop.Lift is broken. Could be dangerous.” His words were clipped, already mentally cataloging tools, parts suppliers.
“Okay.” She hugged herself tighter.The blanket swallowed her frame. “Will you… come back?”
The question hung in the space between them, charged and fragile. He looked at her—rumpled, marked, swimming in his scent—standing in the doorway of a life that was not his. The bond ached like a phantom limb. He felt the pull to stay, to soothe, an alpha impulse wired directly into his nervous system now. It warred violently with the urge to run toward the simple, greasy chaos of his garage.He shoved his legs into his jeans, pulling them up over his hips. “I need to handle this.”
“That’s not an answer.” Her voice was small, but it didn’t waver.He found his t-shirt, yanked it over his head. His own scent, mingled with hers, was overpowering. “Aurora.”
“Please.” The word was a whisper, but it hit him in the chest. He could feel the raw edge of her fear through the bond, a cold slickness that wasn’t from her heat. The fear of abandonment, sharp and specific.“Just say it. If you’re not coming back, just… say it now.”
He stopped, one boot in his hand.He looked at her. Saw the girl from the anonymous chat, the one who’d asked him to use his words. He’d given her his bite.His bond.He owed her this, at least. The truth, however clumsy.
“I’m coming back.” The statement felt too big, too final.He tempered it.“I have to fix the lift. It’ll take a few hours.Maybe more. But I’ll… I’ll come back after.”
The change in her was instantaneous.The cold fear in the bond evaporated, replaced by a warmth so intense it made him blink. She didn’t smile, but her whole body softened, the tension draining from her shoulders. “Okay.”
“You should rest. Your heat’s not over.” He said it like a foreman giving an order, pulling on his other boot.“I will.” She took a hesitant step forward. “Rhys?”
He straightened up, keys already in hand.“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the eggs.” She looked down, a blush creeping up her neck, darkening the vivid mark he’d left there. “And for saying you’ll come back.”
He gave a single, stiff nod, the only gesture he could manage. Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut softly behind him.The hallway outside her apartment was silent, sterile, empty of her scent. The bond didn’t break—it thrummed, a taut, living wire stretching out behind him, tying him to the warm, vanilla-soaked space he’d just left. He took the stairs two at a time, the mechanical thud of his boots echoing in the stairwell, a sound that was purely his own. He hit the pavement outside, the autumn air cold and sharp in his lungs, and pulled out his phone.
“Leo,” he barked as the line connected, striding toward his truck.“What’s the model number on the lift cylinder? I’m on my way.” The problem awaited, concrete and fixable. But the tug on his soul, gentle and unrelenting, pointed back the way he’d come.