They didn't leave him alone after that.
Not really.
Night fell slowly over the Dawn Clan, the sky outside the cavern bleeding from deep red to black while fires burned lower and steadier. The air cooled just enough to sharpen every sensation, every shift of fabric against skin, every sound of movement beyond the stone walls.
He lay on the furs where they had left him—restraints loosened but not removed, a deliberate choice. Freedom close enough to taste, far enough to deny.
That denial gnawed at him.
Not because he wanted to escape.
Because he could feel them thinking about him.
It wasn't imagination. He knew that now.
The sensation returned in waves—subtle pulls of attention, drifting touches that never quite became physical. Sometimes it felt like warmth grazing his ribs. Other times like a tightness behind his eyes, as if invisible gazes were leaning closer.
DESIRE DETECTED
SOURCE: MULTIPLE
INTENSITY: LOW–MODERATE
STATUS: WITHHELD
The words didn't appear, but the meaning pressed itself into him anyway.
The bloodline stirred.
He inhaled slowly, grounding himself the way he used to before panic set in back in his old life—counting breaths, controlling tempo.
The pressure responded.
Not by fading.
By settling.
Like liquid drawn into a narrower container.
Footsteps approached.
Unhurried. Confident.
Only one set this time.
The braided woman entered the chamber without announcing herself. She carried no weapon, no torch—only the ambient glow from outside traced the contours of her form as she stepped inside.
She stopped just beyond arm's reach and looked down at him.
"You're awake," she observed.
"Yes."
A pause.
"That wasn't a question."
She crouched, resting her elbows casually on her knees, lowering herself to his eye level again. She smelled faintly of smoke and oil, of steel warmed by skin. Everything about her presence felt intentional—every breath measured, every movement chosen.
"You felt it," she said softly. "Didn't you?"
He held her gaze. "Yes."
Something flickered behind her eyes. Satisfaction. Curiosity. Something darker.
"They've been talking," she continued. "Wondering how long you'll keep that composure. Wondering what it would take to make you beg."
A subtle shift in the air followed her words—like others were listening through her, feeding on the idea.
His pulse quickened.
"But you didn't," she added. "You didn't pull away. You didn't lean into it either."
She tilted her head. "Why?"
He thought carefully before answering. Every instinct told him words mattered here.
"Because either reaction would have been expected."
Her lips curved. "Good."
She leaned forward slightly, close enough now that he could see the faint imperfections in her skin, the thin scar near her lip.
"You should know something," she said quietly. "In this clan, males don't last because they're strong."
Her gaze dipped briefly, deliberately.
"They last because they're interesting."
Her hand rose then—not to touch him immediately, but to hover just above his chest. He felt the heat from her palm, close enough to raise goosebumps along his skin.
"Most give us what we want," she murmured. "Too quickly."
Her fingers finally made contact.
One hand. Flat against his chest.
The contact was controlled, professional—yet the effect was anything but. His breath hitched despite himself, a spark racing through his nerves.
She felt it.
Of course she did.
Her eyes narrowed. "There," she said softly. "That's what they watch for."
She withdrew her hand.
The sudden absence felt almost sharper than the touch itself.
The pressure inside him surged again, denser now, like a weight settling behind his sternum.
WITHHELD DESIRE: ACCUMULATING
She smiled faintly. "You see? Even denial leaves marks."
She stood then, straightening smoothly. "Come. You'll eat with the others."
The way she said it made it clear this wasn't kindness.
It was exposure.
They escorted him—not dragged, not restrained—through the encampment as night fully claimed the sky. Fires dotted the clearing, casting pools of light where people gathered to eat, talk, train. Conversation dipped when they passed.
Not silence.
Awareness.
Women glanced up from their food. From their work. From each other.
Some looked once and returned to what they were doing.
Others didn't.
He felt their attention like fingers tracing shapes just out of reach.
They seated him near the center—not beside the leader, but close enough that everyone could see him clearly. Food was placed before him—simple, hearty, warm.
He hesitated only a second before eating.
It would have been easy to refuse. To posture. To make a point.
But hunger grounded him. Survival demanded acceptance before defiance.
As he ate, he felt them watching his hands. His mouth. The way his shoulders moved when he swallowed.
It wasn't obscene.
It was worse.
It was interest without shame.
The younger woman from before sat across from him. She tried not to stare. Failed.
"You don't avert your eyes," she said quietly.
"I don't see the advantage," he replied, keeping his voice low.
Her fingers tightened around her bowl. "You should."
"Why?"
"Because it makes it harder to stop thinking."
He met her gaze.
"That sounds like your problem."
Her breath caught.
The braided woman noticed the exchange immediately.
A slow smile curved her lips.
Later, when the fires burned low and conversations dulled into murmurs, they led him back—not to the same spot as before.
To her quarters.
The structure was larger, better reinforced, its entrance marked with carved symbols that radiated authority. Inside, the air was warmer. Cleaner. A single fire burned low, shadows dancing over neatly arranged furs and weapons.
She closed the entrance behind them.
Not locking it.
He stood near the center of the space, acutely aware of the closeness, the isolation. This wasn't public now.
This was personal.
She turned to face him, arms crossed loosely. "You should understand something," she said. "Being brought here doesn't mean I intend to take you."
His pulse thudded.
"It means I want to see what you do when you think I could."
She stepped closer. Slowly.
"You don't belong to me," she continued. "Not yet. You belong to attention. To possibility."
She stopped inches away.
The heat between them was intense enough to make his skin prickle. He forced himself not to move—to let the tension exist without resolving it.
Her eyes searched his face, not for fear, but for cracks.
She didn't find any.
After a long moment, she stepped back.
"You'll sleep here tonight," she said. "On the furs."
A deliberate pause.
"Alone."
Something like relief and frustration twisted together inside him.
"And tomorrow," she added calmly, "they'll wonder why."
She turned away, dismissing him with the certainty of someone used to being obeyed.
He lay down where she indicated, the firelight painting her silhouette across the wall as she prepared to rest elsewhere in the chamber—close enough to feel, far enough to deny.
As exhaustion finally claimed him, the pressure inside his chest settled once more.
Not released.
Stored.
Waiting.
And somewhere in the quiet, the bloodline pulsed—patient, heavy, and very much awake.