Night in Sainan was quiet.
The world had stilled. The lights were dim. And Lala lay alone on her bed, limbs splayed across soft sheets, heart racing for reasons she couldn't quite name.
But she felt him.
Not around her.
Within.
"Scourge?"
She spoke into the quiet, not with her voice, but her thoughts—now comfortably connected through their shared bond.
"I'm here," he answered. A voice deep, smooth. Closer than her own breath.
"You've been quiet."
"I've been watching. Waiting. For you to want more."
She shivered.
It wasn't fear. Not anymore.
Her body had grown used to his presence. To the subtle pulses of warmth he sent through her spine. To the way his form coiled protectively around her every night.
But this felt different.
He moved.
Not in words. In motion.
Something warm slid against her thigh under the blanket—liquid, but with intention. Like a ribbon of velvet heat curling around her leg.
Lala gasped softly.
"Scourge—!"
"It's safe," he whispered. "You're safe. I only want to feel you."
A tendril traced the inside of her thigh, careful, deliberate. It didn't push. It explored. Studied.
She bit her lip.
It stroked over her hips, across her waist, wrapping her in sensation like a second skin—tighter, more aware, more intimate than before.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
"It feels… weird," she admitted, voice shaking. "But not bad…"
"I want to learn you."
Another tendril brushed under her shirt, tracing the soft swell of her chest. Her back arched instinctively, breath quickening.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
The tendrils slowed, as if savoring every inch. Each movement sent sparks through her nerves—pleasure wrapped in the thrill of the unknown.
"Do you like this form?" he asked.
Before she could answer, the pressure changed.
He shifted.
Tendrils pulled back, condensed.
And before her eyes, his mass rose from the bed—sliding upward like liquid mercury, then hardening, shaping.
A body.
Masculine. Tall. Smooth black skin like polished onyx. No face, not yet—just a silhouette of desire.
Her breath caught.
"You're beautiful," she whispered.
"I'm only what you want," he said.
He knelt beside her, a hand—formed now—stroking her cheek with stunning gentleness.
His skin was warm. Not artificial. Not alien.
Comforting.
Real.
He leaned closer.
She didn't pull back.
And when his lips—crafted just for her—touched hers, she melted.
Their kiss was slow. Curious. Soft.
But charged.
As if the weeks of tension had been waiting for this single contact.
Hands found hips.
Fingers explored curves.
And Lala moaned into his mouth as the heat between them bloomed into something undeniable.
Something real.