I couldn't halt.

My fists punished the bag repeatedly, until my vision blurred around the edges. Each impact sent shockwaves through my bones, granting fleeting clarity before the next surge overwhelmed. The implant blared warnings, heat surging through muscle and metal. Discipline vanquishes weakness. That was the singular focus.

"NYX," I gasped, "suppress the endocrine surge."

[IMPOSSIBLE. SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT.]

I struck harder.

A voice pierced the pounding in my ears. "Cadet Cooper!"

Nora. No—Instructor Valen. Civilian. Irrelevant. I barely registered the door opening before instinct spun me toward it, fists ready, desperate for something tangible to control.

"Back off," I warned.

She ignored me.

In three strides, her hands caught my wrists mid-swing, pinning me against the training bay wall. The clang echoed, sharp and decisive. For a split second, every muscle froze, shock flashing white through my veins. My pulse thundered audibly, threatening to drown out all sound.

"Let me go!" I struggled, but her grip held—firm, precise, unyielding.

"No." Her voice wasn't stern; it was calm, measured, authentic. "You’ll stop before you destroy yourself."

"You don’t issue orders to me!"

"Right now, I do."

Her eyes met mine—dark, steady—and something in the implanted fog hesitated. The Imperium training screamed resist, but the world had narrowed to the warmth of her hands and the sound of our ragged breaths.

Then came the chill of metallic restraints snapping around my wrists, seeping through skin and bone. A heavy magnet engaged with a muffled thunk that resonated more than echoed, anchoring my arms flat against the bulkhead. The metal was unyielding, absolute. I yanked once, instinct overriding sense, but the magnetic lock barely shuddered.

I was trapped. Held. Helpless.

Nora's voice drifted to me, measured and clinical, discussing how my body wasn't my foe, how these sensations were natural stress responses. Her words blurred into a muffled tunnel, something about neural pathways and conditioning, physical from emotional. But every syllable felt distant, as if she were at the end of a long corridor.

My focus narrowed to the maddening itch crawling under my skin, centered deep in my core like a live wire through my ribcage. It pulsed with each heartbeat, spreading outward in waves that made muscles twitch involuntarily. The sensation wasn't pain; it was a need, raw and demanding, clawing my conscious edges with growing desperation.

I yearned to move. To strike something. To do anything that might restore even a sliver of control over this treacherous body that no longer felt my own.

I felt her subtle shift beside me, a subtle change in the air that spiked my pulse. Then her hand—impossibly gentle against the rough military fabric—began its deliberate descent. Her fingers slipped beneath the waistband with confidence, finding what she sought.

Her palm settled on my core with exact precision, and I felt my body's betrayal pooling there, warm and wet against her fingers. The dampness had built despite my mental resistance, despite every logical thought screaming this was wrong, that I shouldn’t want this. The contact ignited a jolt that had nothing to do with the magnetic restraints holding me fast—this was a different helplessness, primitive and deep.

The sensation caught my breath, sharp and echoing off the metal walls. My hips jerked against her touch, seeking more despite my mind’s resistance. This wasn't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to respond like this, wasn’t supposed to feel anything but disgust and desperate escape.

But my body had other intentions, and Nora's knowledgeable touch was methodically dismantling every shield I thought I had left.

A low, desperate moan wrenched from my throat as she pressed her palm more firmly, the motion creating friction that radiated pleasure through my core. My back arched, pushing myself into her touch despite the impulse to pull away, to deny what was happening.

"That's it," Nora murmured, her voice a soothing contradiction to the intimate invasion. Her free hand traced patterns along my ribcage, ostensibly comforting but possessively demanding. "Your body knows what it needs, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet. These changes aren't to resist, they're vital. Essential."

Her finger found its way between my folds, making me gasp. Her touch was both clinical and knowing, exactly, as if she sensed my body’s needs with practiced ease. The sensation was intense—not quite pleasure, not quite pain, but something in between, beyond description, alien to my experience.

It made my every nerve ending sing with an unwanted intensity, one I couldn't deny despite my mind’s protest. My hips bucked, seeking the maddening contact, betraying my resistance. The disconnect between what my body craved and my conscious mind rejected caused a dissonance threatening to shatter whatever self remained.

She added another finger, and the stretch made me gasp—a sound I immediately resented. Her thumb found my clitoris, unhooded and exposed, sending a jolt of sensation so intense it neared pain. I bit down hard on my lower lip to stifle a cry, my hips locked in place, offering them to her as if tethered by invisible chains.

"This is how you deal with your hormones," she whispered, her voice a dark command as she began pumping her fingers. The sounds of her intrusion filled the silent room, undeniably. Her fingers curled, exploring with practiced expertise, finding a specific spot that altered everything. The pressure built, a sensation entirely new—deeper and enclosing, radiating outward through my pelvis in waves that made my thighs quiver.

My head flew back into the bulkhead as I cried out, the impact sending reverberations through my skull, stars scattering across my vision. The pain was distant, irrelevant compared to the pleasure that ripped the sound from me—a sound I barely recognized as my own, raw and desperate, devoid of the poise I’d cultivated.

My spine arched involuntarily, driving my hips forward into her relentless hand, chasing the sensations she inflicted. The contradiction of pulling closer and pushing away made me acutely and distantly embarrassed, but coherent thought was impossible, fragmented like the stars still across my vision. The sensation persisted, building slowly yet insistently, accumulating pressure that seemed to originate from the core of my being.

Then it released, not shattered, but unleashed, as if something deep within had finally yielded. The sensation tore through me in waves, beginning at that deep place where her fingers worked their deliberate magic. My body responded with warmth, muscles contracting in rhythms beyond my control as I gushed against her still-nestled hand. The fabric turned heavy, clinging wetly to my thighs as my hips jerked involuntarily.

She continued relentlessly until I slouched into the chains, the restraints bearing my full weight as my legs failed. My arms stretched overhead, wrists burning from the metal’s bite, but I couldn’t manage to support myself. Tiny tremors still rippled through my core, each drawing a quiet gasp from my throat, sounds I couldn’t control, raw and exposed.

Through the haze, I felt her hand remain against me, not moving, merely present. The heat seeped through the damp fabric, a relentless reminder of her presence, her control. Even in my exhaustion, the touch sparked fresh tremors.

Minutes or hours later, her hand withdrew, the absence feeling sharply cruel. I sensed the electronic chime before feeling the release. The gravcuffs deactivated with a characteristic hum, the invisible force giving way, dropping my arms heavily to my sides. They fell like dead weight, pins and needles rushing through my shoulders and fingertips, the return of sensation agonizing.

Gradually, I lifted my head, the effort monumental as every fiber vibrated with residual sensation. Her expression, calculating earlier, now was distant, professional, assessing. Her glance fell upon me, evaluating, not basking in triumph, but cataloging.

I flushed as I recalled my abandonment, the sounds I’d made, how completely I’d surrendered to what she’d orchestrated. The image of my own vulnerability rushed back, mortifyingly clear. I began to apologize, words forming instinctively, but Nora pressed her wet fingers to my lips, silencing me.

Her fingertips, coated with my essence, contacted my mouth. The intimacy of it, confronting my release so, frankly, sent heat through my body. There was something profane about the gesture, something exposing, leaving me acutely aware of how thoroughly she’d unwoven my defenses.

"Open," she commanded, her voice firm. I obeyed, parting my lips, allowing her fingers to slip inside. They pressed against my tongue with deliberation, forcing me to acknowledge the evidence of my undoing.

The flavor, salty and tangy, was undeniable, unmistakable. My tongue cleaned her fingers, almost reflexively, ensuring I missed nothing. The act was deeply personal, intensely degrading in a way transcending mere humiliation claiming, a reminder of how utterly she’d dismantled me, now holding the pieces.

"I own you now, Kaitlyn," she said, assertive rather than gloating. It was a fact, delivered calmly and certainly. "I am your mistress, and you will obey me as your superior. Understood?"

The words hung between us, settling like a physical weight. I could offer no disagreements; she wasn’t asking, merely informing me of a reality that already existed. Her tone left no room for negotiation, carrying the finality of an absolute.

"Yes, ma’am," I whispered, the words escaping before conscious thought. My voice sounded strange, stripped of the confidence I’d worn like armor. The honorific felt unfamiliar, the acknowledgment of a new hierarchy, its implications settled into my consciousness. I felt the shift, the finality of this admission.

[BIO-SIGNATURE: NORMAL. REST STATE ACHIEVED.] NYX announced, its tone carrying satisfaction at my compliance. The systems seemed to relax, sensors returning to passive observation. The irony wasn’t lost so that even my responses had become data, my physical reactions logged and analyzed.

Nora adjusted her clothing with precise gestures, restoring crisp lines and professional detachment. Her message was clear: whatever transpired between us had concluded, filed away efficiently.

"Your body’s needs are predictable," she said, her tone informative, detached. "Every seventy-two hours, give or take six, your hormones will spike to critical levels. NYX will monitor your advance, but you’ll sense it coming—the restlessness, the inability to focus, the crawling beneath your skin that physical exertion can’t dispel."

I remained leaning against the bulkhead, damp fabric a stark reminder, acutely aware of the contrast between our appearances. The message was a deliberate lesson in control, her strength in reducing me to incoherence and then restoring order.

"When that happens," she continued, meeting my gaze with direct authority, "you will come to me. Not autodoc, not private relief. Only me. Exclusively."

"Yes, ma’am," I managed, the words coarse, my voice still carrying the rough edges of what she’d done. The acknowledgment felt heavier than any regulation response—weighted with the knowledge that I was agreeing to more than an order. I was consenting to her sole right to my body’s needs, recognizing her exclusive authority in relieving me from the hunger she’d awakened. This wasn’t temporary, wasn’t situational; it was ongoing. Continuous. A standing order governing every moment of frustrated arousal, every sleepless night, every training drill where her proximity became an uncontrollable distraction.

The weight of this understanding settled like full combat gear, something to learn to bear, to integrate into my existence rather than an obstacle to overcome.

With that, she left, the door sealing behind her, marking more than a physical boundary. The silence was heavier, more intentional. Not the brief lull of a temporary absence, but the settled emptiness of terms delivered and awaiting acceptance.

I stood, listening to the station’s life support hum, the distant murmur of activities echoing through the walls. The air still held the faint trace of her, that elusive scent that had compelled my focus during drills, briefings, every moment of shared space since this assignment.

Now I understood—why awareness had constantly hummed beneath my skin whenever she was near. Why every fiber of my being had tracked her presence in a dance of unspoken tension.

I knew why. I understood the root of that relentless awareness, that magnetic pull my instincts had tracked without my mind's acknowledgment.

My Alpha had marked her territory, established her claim, and left me to ponder the scope of what I’d agreed to.