Chapter 1: The Weight of Vows
My name is Levi. I'm eighteen, and I'm what they call an Uvar. Mostly that just means I’m small enough for people to assume I’ll snap in half if they breathe too hard near me.
I was born into this fucked-up world where everyone's male, but nature decided to carve some of us—Uvars—into walking wet dreams for the Zevars. Big brutes whose biceps could probably bench-press me without noticing.
Being an Uvar is like winning the lottery and getting punched in the gut at the same time. Call it a blessing? Sure. Once bonded to a Zevar, you're untouchable—no other Zevars are going to try anything unless they're completely suicidal and want their insides decorating the pavement.
But if you're unbonded? Forget about walking down the street after dark without some Neanderthal giving you the look—the I see prey stare. It felt like being hunted every second of every goddamn day.
That's why I should have been grateful for Drake. He was my shield, my husband... in theory.
Yes, Drake wedded me in a surprisingly romantic way—exchanging vows under a flowery arch, with a breathtaking view of the mountains over the lake.
And there was the fact that he’d courted me for two whole years, bringing me gifts like hand-picked flowers as if I were some delicate princess.
But here’s the kicker: Drake hadn't sealed the bond yet. That crucial step—where he's supposed to claim me body and soul—still hadn't happened. So, yeah, he needed to be physically by my side to deter other Zevars prowling for me.
And fuck, did I feel guilty about it. The reason Drake hadn't claimed me yet? Because my stupid body hadn't started producing slick. I’d been eighteen for two whole months, yet I was still drier than the Sahara down there. Damn useless hole was about as inviting as a cactus.
Drake couldn't seal the bond without it—trying to force the notoriously monstrous Zevar cock into my barren, bone-dry snatch would probably turn me inside out. Kill me, most likely. And he'd never risk that.
So...we waited.
The next course of action for us was a government-mandated "bond-a-thon".
Seriously. They ship fresh Zevar-Uvar pairs off to remote islands like Laki for 'undisturbed bonding.' Translation? Shag like rabbits until it sticks.
They want to prevent two things: family members awkwardly catching us in the act, or, worse, Drake tearing some poor bastard Zevar limb from limb because my bonding scent might spike at the wrong moment.
How long would it last? Fuck if I knew.
Papa had said these bonding retreats dragged on "until the Uvar bears a child," which sounded like a goddamn life sentence to my eighteen-year-old self.
"Hey," I nudged Drake’s thigh with toe of my slide. "Think we’ll get a decent cottage? Or just be crammed into some rusted dorms?"
I tried picturing the worst: peeling paint, shared toilets, and lumpy mattresses. Anything worse than Drake’s suburban mansion would feel like absolute punishment.
“We better.” Drake scoffed. He slung his massive arm over my shoulder—it was less a hug than teritorial claim.
“The Coalition better not be planning to cram a bunch of horny couples into some voyeuristic barracks like we're animals in a fucking zoo.” His fingers brushed my collarbone possessively; he was already anticipating unwelcome eyes.
I shot him a teasing grin, waggling my brows. “Are you horny, Mr. Osiris?” My voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, thick with mock accusation.
Drake snorted. "What do you think, princess? Got a beautiful boy draped over me for two years, smelling like fuckin' heaven, and I can't even taste him? Yeah, I'm fuckin' horny."
I dropped my head against his side—yeah, Zevars were that fucking built. His red tank’s armholes gaped halfway to his waist, basically an invitation to melt right into that warm muscle.
“Let’s just hope,” I whispered into that warm muscle. “That my stupid body figures itself out soon.”
Drake caught my chin—gentle, but firm—tilting my face up to his. His dark eyes locked on mine, intense and unwavering.
“Stop stressing, Levi.” His thumb brushed across my bottom lip. “We’re not forcing shit. It’ll happen when your body’s damn good and ready. Until then, we'll just... improvise."
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead, and guilt twisted in my chest. He was patient as fucking stone, and still, my useless hole remained uncooperative.
Around us, couples milled about the ferry deck—mostly young Zevars and Uvars, their hands tangled, hips pressed tight. The Zevars were—what?—early twenties? Such pure testosterone factories pacing like hungry lions.
By bonding standards, Drake was ancient—thirty-two years of dragging around that pent-up Zevar rut without an Uvar to claim? Shit, that sounded like agony.
I pictured him grinding his teeth through my awkward adolescence, catching whiffs of my slow-blooming scent but unable to touch me. That was pure fucking torture bottled inside that massive frame. Honestly? The fact that he hadn't snapped yet scared me more than if he had.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why’d you wait? Could’ve bonded with anyone ten years ago.”
Drake shifted—metal bench groaning under his weight—and stared toward the horizon. His arm stayed heavy around my shoulders.
“Simple,” he said. Voice flat. Final. “Wasn’t worth bonding unless it was you.”
I snorted—sharp, ugly—and shoved at his ribs. “Pfftt... That’s sappy as fuck, Drake.”
He grinned. “Don’t care. Truth’s truth.” He turned toward me again, his knuckles grazing my jawline with such gentleness it tightened my throat. "You're different, Levi. Always were."
"Different?" I snorted. "Different how? 'Cause I threw a tantrum when you tried feeding me steak medium-rare instead of well done?"
Drake chuckled. "Exactly. Screaming bloody murder over pink meat—most Uvars would’ve choked it down politely. But you?" His thumb stopped moving, resting against the corner of my mouth. "You never pretend. Annoying? Maybe. Exhausting? Fuck yes."
His gaze dropped to my mouth, voice lowering to a growl. "You're real. Makes me wanna tear the world apart just to hear you laugh."
"You've got a weird taste, you know that." I shoved at his shoulder playfully again—barely budging him—then leaned in close enough to smell the salt and musk on his skin.
"But... Thank you." The words slipped out awkwardly—like admitting I’d stolen his favorite shirt—but I meant them.
He smiled—small, almost shy—and for a second, the air between us stilled. Just the hum of the ferry, the soft slap of waves, and his touch still ghosting along my jaw.
NGOOONGGGG
The ferry horn blasted—straight out of hell’s own choir—and tore me right out of my sappy-ass moment. We both jolted.
“Fuckkkking hell!” I yelped, clutching Drake’s arm like a life raft. My heart hammered against my ribs, my teeth rattling from the sheer volume.
Around us, couples flinched and cursed, Zevars pulling their Uvars closer against the sudden, jarring noise. Drake’s arm snapped around my waist, hauling me tight to his side, his other hand clamping over my ear where it pressed against his chest.
“Easy, princess.” his rumble reverberated through his chest and straight into my skull. “Just the horn. We’re pulling into port.”
His grip loosened but didn’t fall away—probably afraid I’d bolt across the deck like a startled deer. I peeled myself off him slowly, wincing at the aftershocks buzzing through my head.
“Fuck,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. “That’s gonna haunt my nightmares.”
The ferry crawled toward Laki's dock—a concrete slab jutting into turquoise water. But beyond the dock? Not what I expected.
Instead of barracks or peeling cottages, a whole damn village climbed the hillside: whitewashed houses with terracotta roofs, bougainvillea spilling over wrought-iron balconies, and narrow cobblestone streets winding up into the cliffs. Like a Mediterranean fever dream dropped in the middle of nowhere.
"Holy shit," I breathed, gripping Drake's arm. "They didn't say it'd be cute."
Drake snorted, scanning the pastel houses clinging to the slope. "Beats those barracks, huh?"
I slumped against him, relief washing over me. "Fuck, yes," I muttered. "Thought we'd be sharing shower stalls with three other couples—imagine trying to soap up while some Zevar is pounding his Uvar against the tile wall next door."
"Bet that's exactly your idea of a good time, huh, princess?"
"Shut the fuck up," I hissed, smacking his rock-solid thigh, my cheeks burning hotter than the ferry's exhaust pipe.
The mental image of some faceless Uvar getting loudly railed in a communal shower? Yeah, that did jack-shit except make me feel like defective merchandise wrapped in lace.
We moved to the railing without speaking, leaning against the cool, paint-chipped metal as the ferry groaned its way into Laki's embrace. Below us, the water churned, thick mooring ropes slapped wetly against the hull, and the salty tang of seaweed mixed with diesel fumes filled the air.
"Hey Drake?"
"Mm?" Drake’s gaze stayed locked on the approaching dock where uniformed handlers waited.
"Can I... Can I call you Daddy?" It was a stupid question—probably—but it bubbled up from somewhere deep and needy.
Drake snapped his head toward me, his dark eyes narrowed—calculating—then a smirk slowly split his face. "Thinkin’ that dry hole’s finally decided to wake up?"
"Asshole," I scowled. "Just answer the damn question."
Shit. Maybe I was desperate for something—anything—to feel less...broken. Something to own him with, even if my body refused to cooperate.
Drake’s smirk deepened, oddly predatory. "Yeah, princess. Call me whatever filthy shit makes that little body of yours clench."
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw stars, turning my face back to the approaching docks—fuck him and his cocky assumptions about my cunt waking up. His smirk practically radiated heat against my cheek, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of another blush or verbal stumble.
Slowly, the ferry nudged against the rubber bumpers lining the dock with barely a shudder—surprisingly smooth for something that had sounded like a dying dinosaur all trip.
Drake hauled our two massive canvas duffels onto his shoulders like they weighed nothing, his muscles flexing deliciously under his red tank. He offered his elbow to steady me as we shuffled toward the metal gangway.
A wiry, salt-crusted colder Zevar waited dockside, holding a clipboard thick enough to crush a crab.
“Osiris?” he barked, his eyes flicking between Drake’s frame and my smaller silhouette half-hidden beside him.
Drake nodded once, shifting the duffels higher.
“Office.” The handler jerked a thumb toward a squat lime-green building near the entrance. “Paperwork first. Move.”
Inside, it smelled like stale coffee and bureaucratic despair—yellowed forms stacked high on metal desks. The handler slapped down a packet dense enough to stop a bullet.
“Fill that. Starred fields are mandatory.” His gaze lingered on Drake’s biceps. “We assign labor based on skill. What’s your trade topside?”
“Contractor. Fifteen years.” Drake’s pen scratched hard as he circled BUILDER—decisively, like he’d been itching to swing a hammer since we boarded the ship.
The handler grunted his approval and tossed a set of keys onto the counter.
"Cottage Seven. Blue door, bougainvillea vines. Top tier view." He smirked at Drake’s sharp nod. "Use that Zevar stamina wisely—bonding ain’t no spectator sport here."
We stepped back into the blinding sunlight. The uphill path wound past neat clusters of whitewashed homes, each one bursting with color and heat.
The duffel bags bounced against Drake’s broad back as he climbed effortlessly. I trailed behind, trying not to pant. Gods damn it, even oxygen hated Uvar lungs.
Drake glanced back, amused at my flushed face. "Keep up, princess. You want me to carry you?" He teased, shifting both straps to one shoulder, before extending a hand.
"I'm not weak!" I gasped, swatting at the offering. Sweat prickled my temples already. "Just... disproportionate lung capacity."
Drake snorted and just climbed faster—asshole.
Cottage Seven waited at the top, its blue door punching brightly against the sun-bleached stucco. Bougainvillea vines strangled the walls, spilling magenta blossoms like lazy fire. Below, the sea glittered—a mood ring shifting from turquoise to deep sapphire under the brutal midday sun.
“Fuck,” I wheezed, doubling over halfway up the last incline. “Definitely... huff... beats... huff... barracks.” My lungs burned like I’d swallowed lit matches; sweat plastered my shirt to my spine.
Drake didn’t even look winded—that jerk. Sweat slicked his neck, and soaked through his tank top, plastering dark against the ridges of muscle, catching the sun. He dropped the duffels on the porch with a thud.
He plugged the key into the lock and gave it a rough twist. The door swung inward with a groan of dry hinges.
Yep, been painted recently—that sharp, chemical bite of fresh enamel mixing with salt air and the faint starch scent of laundered cotton punched me right in the nose.
"Home sweet home." Drake tossed the key onto a small oak table just inside.
The cottage was cozy as hell—honey-colored beams, white plaster glowing in the afternoon, light pouring through a single massive window. Dust motes drifted suspended in the golden light.
To the right, a tiny kitchenette gleamed with stainless steel appliances—stove, fridge, microwave—not exactly gourmet paradise but enough to keep us fed, I could manage.
Beyond that, a narrow door stood slightly ajar, revealing crisp white towels stacked military-straight over a simple shower.
And dead center in the main room? One king-sized bed, with duvet plush enough to drown in, framed by an oak headboard carved with twisting vines.
Cozy? Yeah. Intimate? Fuck yes. Terrifying? Absolutely. My dry hole clenched at the sheer inevitability of it.
Because perched on the bedside table, looking deceptively innocent, sat a slim, navy-blue booklet stamped with the Coalition seal: "Essential Bonding Procedures & Physiological Compatibility Guide."
"What the fuck?" I muttered, flipping it open with a flick of my thumb.
Day One: Establish Physical Trust Through Non-Penetrative Touch and Shared Vulnerability.
I snapped it shut. "They really went all in on the honeymoon brochure vibe, huh? The next page probably diagrams optimal cock-sucking angles."
Before I could process the absurdity, Drake was there. His hand shot out, snatching the manual out of my hand, and his other arm went around my waist, his grip crushing and quick.
I had just enough time to yelp before he hefted me off my feet like I weighed nothing—tossing me onto that plush, waiting bed. The springs groaned under me. My breath hitched as I bounced once, twice, while scrambling backward until my head hit that vine-carved headboard.
"Wait—Drake!" My voice cracked, panic clawing my throat as he stalked toward the bed.
But he only grinned—that lazy, infuriating smirk—and kicked off his boots. Then he flopped down beside me—not on me—just flat on his back, arms folded behind his head like nothing fucking happened. The bed creaked under his bulk.
“Relax, princess,” he patted his chest. “C’mere.”
I blinked, frozen against the headboard, my heart thumping like a caged bird. “You fucking asshole,” I breathed, shaky, half-angry, half-relieved. “Thought you were gonna—”
“Just fucking come here,” Drake growled, patting that solid chest—his breathing was even, like a tide against the quiet. “Told you we’d improvise, didn’t I?” He didn’t even look at me, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams.
I hesitated, caught somewhere between fear and the pull of gravity. Then I crawled across the mattress—slowly, waryly, like edging toward a sleeping wolf.
The springs whined beneath my knees. Finally, I collapsed against him, pressing my ear to his sternum.
Gods, that heartbeat—deep and thunderous, vibrating through bone and skin straight into my skull. Steady, and relentless.
Then his arm came around my shoulders, heavy and sure—anchoring me to the quiet.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
