Primal Bond (Warlords of Vasz #4)

9. Chapter 9

Chapter nine

W hat the hell is wrong with me? Finn chastised himself as he fled the mess, picking up his pace.

Zanik is the enemy. His whole species is.

Don't you dare forget that.

He stumbled into his quarters — or rather, Zanik's quarters — and threw himself down on the bed. The room was dim, the soft hum of the ship's engines the only sound breaking the silence.

Finn pressed his face into the bedding, seeking some form of comfort. The fabric held a faint, lingering scent of Zanik’s skin, musky and masculine. It enveloped him, and he inhaled deeply, the scent seeping into his senses.

He groaned, frustration bubbling up inside him. Get a grip, Finn. This is messed up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts, but they persisted. The scent was like a trigger, a Pavlovian response he couldn’t control.

It’s just conditioning, he told himself. Like some sick, twisted version of a dog drooling at the sound of a bell.

His fingers clenched the bedding, his knuckles turning white. He could still see Zanik in his mind’s eye — muscular, imposing, yet strangely vulnerable in those unguarded moments. The way Zanik’s eyes had softened, just for a heartbeat, when they talked about memories.

Finn groaned again, rolling onto his back. His body thrummed with a weird energy, his mind a chaotic whirlwind. There was no way he could sleep like this, not with every nerve in his body alight with tension.

He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Before he was kidnapped, he had been just a regular, healthy young man. His body had been a source of simple, uncomplicated pleasure.

He remembered the ease with which he’d brought himself off, as easy as breathing. The natural, unashamed enjoyment of his own touch, his own needs… All of it had seemed so normal, so human.

But then Rivek had happened. Finn’s body had been torn from him, twisted into something unrecognizable. The slavers had turned every touch into a violation, every caress into an act of violence. He had been nothing but a tool, a commodity to be used and discarded.

The thought of anyone touching him had become repulsive, a source of deep, abiding dread. Even his own hands had felt like the hands of a stranger, unwanted and unwelcome.

Ever since then, he had shut down, his body a battleground of fear and revulsion. He couldn’t stand the idea of anyone — himself included — touching him. His own needs had withered away, replaced by a numbness that had seemed almost merciful.

Now, though, something long-buried was stirring.

It was painful, like pins and needles after sitting too long. Finn could feel it, a flicker of life that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

It scared him.

He didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know if he could trust it. His body felt alien, like it belonged to someone else. The idea of reclaiming it, of feeling pleasure again, seemed both tantalizing and terrifying.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations, but they wouldn’t be ignored. His skin felt too tight, too hot, as if it were straining against something unseen. There was an urge, a need, building inside him that he couldn’t quite understand. It was as if his body was waking up from a long, dark sleep, and the awakening was both painful and exhilarating.

He felt like he was betraying himself, betraying the part of him that had survived by shutting down, by refusing to feel.

His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, to touch, to feel. But he was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared of the memories it might bring back.

Still, the flicker of life persisted, refusing to be snuffed out. And Finn, despite everything, found himself unable to ignore it.

He took a deep breath, hesitating before letting his hand drift down to the waistband of his pants. He swallowed hard, nerves and anticipation warring within him. Slowly, he slipped his hand inside, his fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin.

He was surprised to find that his cock responded just like it used to. It hardened under his touch, a familiar and yet foreign sensation. Finn squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push past the memories.

He needed this. He needed to feel like his old self again, even if just for a moment.

His mind drifted back to the fantasies that had once brought him so much pleasure. Hot dominant types from the military, older men with gruff voices and strong hands. He imagined them manhandling him, taking control, their deep voices rumbling praises as they wrecked him.

Good boy, they would growl, their voice gravelly and authoritative. You’re doing so well for me.

Praise. At least that was one difference between fantasy and harsh reality. No-one on Rivek's ship had ever said a nice word to him.

Finn’s breath hitched, his hand moving more confidently now, stroking himself with a growing rhythm. He imagined being pinned against a wall, the starchy texture of a uniform pressing into his back, a strong hand gripping his hip. In his fantasy, a man's breath was hot against his ear, whispering filthy praises that sent shivers down his spine.

Such a good boy, the fantasy continued, the words a balm to Finn’s wounded soul. You like this, don’t you? Being praised, being taken…

But as his hand moved faster, the connection wavered. The fantasies, once an instant ticket to release, now felt distant, like echoes of a past he couldn’t fully grasp. He was half there, his body responding, but his mind lagged behind, trapped in the shadows.

Finn’s frustration grew, his movements becoming more desperate, more erratic. He tried to force the fantasies to work, tried to cling to the images of those strong, commanding men.

But it wasn’t enough. The pleasure built, but it never reached that peak, never tipped him over the edge.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, willing himself to feel, to let go... But it was like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

Finally, with a frustrated growl, Finn stopped, his hand falling away. He lay there, panting, feeling more lost than ever. The denied release was a cruel reminder of how much he had changed.

Frustrated, Finn rolled his face against the sheets, feeling the fabric warm beneath his skin.

His breath hitched. Zanik’s scent was still lingering there, a mix of musk and something uniquely Borraq.

He breathed it in deeply, his body still teetering on the edge of frustrated release. Finn knew what he was about to do was dangerous. It was too close to reality — and reality could break you.

But he shut his eyes again, letting Zanik’s scent fill his senses, and shifted his fantasies.

Instead of the faceless military men he used to imagine, he pictured Zanik.

In his mind, Zanik opened the door and stepped inside, his presence filling the room. Finn’s body responded immediately, a shiver running down his spine. He imagined Zanik’s sharp horns, the way they framed his intense, icy stare. The fantasy was vivid, Zanik’s muscular form towering over him.

Finn’s hand moved to his cock again, stroking slowly as he let the fantasy unfold. In his mind, Zanik approached the bed, his steps deliberate and commanding. Finn imagined the Borraq’s strong hands gripping his hips, the touch firm but not painful. His breath came in ragged gasps, the tension in him building again.

Behind his closed eyes, he watched as Zanik climbed onto the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip. Finn could almost feel the heat of Zanik’s body, the way his larger frame would envelop him. He pictured Zanik’s broad chest, the defined muscles rippling beneath golden skin.

Finn’s strokes quickened, his mind painting a vivid picture of Zanik leaning down, his breath hot against Finn’s ear. Good boy, the imagined Zanik murmured, his voice a deep rumble that sent shivers down Finn’s spine. Finn.

That pushed him over the edge. With a choked gasp, Finn came, his body trembling with the force of his release. Finn lay there, the remnants of his release making his skin feel slick and warm. He panted, the scent of Zanik still filling his senses.

He knew the shame would come soon, that familiar wave of self-loathing that always followed these moments.

But right then, it hadn’t hit. Instead, he felt... cleansed. Purified. Like he'd scrubbed away some deep, ingrained filth.

His breath came in quick, shallow bursts, as if he'd been hyperventilating. His whole body was hot, every nerve ending throbbing with a strange, electric vitality. He felt giddy, almost lightheaded, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he had taken something back. His body, his pleasure — it was his again.

Bizarrely, it felt like a victory. A strike against Rivek, against any Borraq who had ever used him. They hadn’t broken him, not completely. He still had this, this ability to be himself, even in small ways.

His body was still his own, and that realization was both liberating and exhilarating.

Finn reached out to the plate on the bedside table, his fingers brushing against the cool ceramic. He scooped up a few lingering crumbs from the treat Zanik had brought him earlier.

Popping them into his mouth, he savored the sweetness, letting the flavors melt on his tongue. It was a small indulgence, but in this moment, it felt monumental.

His eyes fluttered shut, a contented sigh escaping his lips. For a brief, fleeting instant, he allowed himself to feel something other than fear or anger. He felt... human. Whole.

And that, in itself, was a kind of triumph.