Chapter Seventeen: The Anchor Awakens, The Clone's Embrace *
The door to Serena's apartment closed with a soft click, sealing the external world of neon, cold streets, and violence away. The simple sound seemed to unlock the floodgates of Serena's terror. She stumbled into the small living room, her breath catching in ragged, hitching sobs. The adrenaline was rapidly draining, leaving her a trembling shell.
"I—I can't believe it," she whispered, leaning heavily against the doorframe, still clutching her torn coat like a shield. "The way he… the way you…" She couldn't finish the sentence, unable to reconcile the brutal efficiency of the murder with the calm, handsome presence of the young man standing before her.
Elijah moved with a stillness that was unnerving, yet profoundly stabilizing. He walked to her, his gaze steady and warm, devoid of the lust or predatory focus she had grown accustomed to. He placed a gentle, non-threatening hand on her shoulder.
"The danger is past," he said, his voice a low, rich baritone that seemed to absorb the frantic quality of her own. "You are safe here. I will not leave until you are calm."
His simple assurance of safety was exactly what she needed. The immediate threat of the alley had been neutralized, but the psychological invasion remained. In Elijah, she saw not a man, but an impervious, unshakeable guardian.
Elijah observed her closely. His mental assessment was clinical: Traumatic Bonding was fully established. The recent terror had stripped her ego, leaving a vacuum where her self-reliance used to be. She didn't want a lover; she wanted a pillar to lean on, an overwhelming force to shelter her from the overwhelming forces of the world. She would become immediately clingy, mistaking dependence for affection. This was the optimal condition for the second stage of acquisition.
Serena stumbled back, breaking contact, and sank onto the couch, covering her face with shaking hands. "I can't be alone," she choked out. "I can't… every sound, I keep seeing his face."
Elijah walked to the small kitchenette. "Tea is a poor solution for shock, but it is a familiar ritual," he commented, his back to her. He moved with a quiet, domestic grace that felt wildly incongruous with the recent brutality.
When he returned, he didn't hand her the mug; he sat beside her, letting their shoulders touch, and placed it on the coffee table. He didn't speak again, simply offering a silent, solid presence.
Serena stared at the steam curling from the mug. "I don't know what's real anymore," she murmured. "My boyfriend's insane, his parents hate me… and tonight… I thought I was going to die." She turned toward him, her eyes searching his face. "You're the only thing that feels real right now." She shifted closer, her knee pressing against his thigh. "Tell me something true. Anything."
Elijah's gaze held hers, unwavering. "Truth is subjective. But tonight?" He leaned in fractionally, his voice softening to a conspiratorial murmur. "You survived. That's the only truth that matters. And you're stronger than you think." He paused, letting the silence thicken. "But strength needs shelter sometimes. Even colossi need rest."
Serena's laugh was brittle, edged with hysteria. "Shelter? I feel like cracked glass." She gestured vaguely toward the alley beyond her window. "One wrong touch and I shatter." Her eyes dropped to his hands—clean, capable, the hands that had ended a life for her. The contrast was dizzying. Safe. Dangerous. Necessary. She inched closer, her thigh pressing fully against his now. "Your truth feels solid. Real. Tell me another."
Elijah turned fully toward her, his gaze locking onto hers with unnerving precision. "Reality is perception," he murmured, his voice lowering to a velvet hum that vibrated in her bones. "Tonight, your perception shifted. You saw the darkness win—until it didn't." He leaned in, a calculated fraction, invading her personal space without touching. His breath warmed her cheek. "But darkness isn't the only truth. There's strength in vulnerability. Power in trust." He paused, letting the silence coil tight between them. "You trusted me in that alley. Do you trust me now?"
Serena's trembling eased under the hypnotic cadence of his words. She searched his eyes—cool, deep pools reflecting no judgment, only acceptance. The terror of the alley blurred, replaced by a dizzying pull toward this impossible calm. "I… I don't know how to trust anymore," she confessed, her voice raw. "Everything feels like a trap." Her hand lifted, trembling fingers hovering near his jawline. "But you… you feel like an anchor."
Elijah didn't retreat. He tilted his head slightly, a subtle invitation. "Anchors hold fast," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fleeting, deliberate moment. "They don't drift. They don't lie." He leaned closer, the warmth of his breath ghosting over her skin. "Tell me what you need right now, Serena. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. This moment."
Serena's trembling fingers brushed his jaw, tracing the sharp line. The terror of the alley dissolved into a different kind of vulnerability—raw, exposed, aching for validation. "I need…" Her voice cracked. "I need proof I'm not broken. Proof I'm still… desirable." She swallowed, the admission thick with shame. "After what he tried to do… I need to feel wanted. Not taken."
Elijah's gaze didn't waver. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her temple. "Desire isn't weakness," he murmured, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. "It's reclamation." His thumb brushed her lower lip—once, deliberately—igniting a spark that raced down her spine. "But desire demanded is theft. Desire given…" He paused, letting the implication hang heavy in the air between them. "…is power restored."
Serena's pulse hammered against her ribs. The alley's violation still echoed, but Elijah's proximity offered a counterpoint—control, not chaos. His stillness invited movement. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. "How?" she breathed, the word barely audible. "How do I… reclaim it?"
Elijah's thumb traced the curve of her lower lip again, deliberate and unhurried. "By choice." He closed the distance, his lips meeting hers with a pressure both firm and yielding. It wasn't possessive; it was an invitation. Serena leaned into it, her hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. The kiss deepened, slow and exploratory, a reclaiming of sensation. His tongue brushed hers, a silent question. She answered with a soft moan, pulling him closer until the couch cushions swallowed them both.
He shifted, guiding her backward until she lay beneath him, their mouths still fused. His hands moved with practiced assurance, peeling away her torn coat, then the thin fabric beneath. His touch was deliberate—not worshipful, but attentive—mapping the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. When his mouth left hers to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, Serena arched, gasping. "Elijah—" His name was a plea, half-formed. He answered by sliding lower, his lips closing over one nipple through her bra, sucking gently until the lace grew damp. Her fingers tightened in his hair.
His hand slipped beneath the waistband of her skirt, fingers skimming damp curls before finding her entrance. He explored slowly, circling her clit with maddening precision before sliding two fingers inside. Serena cried out, hips lifting off the couch. He curled his fingers, pressing hard against her front wall, a relentless rhythm that made her thighs shake. Her breath came in ragged bursts. "More," she demanded, voice cracking. He added a third finger, stretching her, filling her. She whimpered, eyes fluttering shut. "Don't stop—"
Elijah withdrew his fingers abruptly, glistening wet. Serena gasped at the sudden emptiness. He stood, unbuckling his belt with efficient grace. "Show me how much you want that proof," he commanded, voice low. Serena slid off the couch onto her knees. She fumbled with his zipper, freeing his cock—limp and unresponsive despite their intensity. Elijah looked down impassively. "You'll need to work for it tonight. The alley stole your voice; this steals your ease. Earn it."
Serena leaned forward, wrapping her lips around him. She focused, tongue swirling, hollowing her cheeks rhythmically. Her hands gripped his hips, anchoring herself. Minutes stretched—saliva slicked her chin, jaw aching—until she felt the faintest twitch against her tongue. Elijah's breath hitched once. A small victory. She doubled her efforts, sucking harder, faster.
He pulled her off abruptly. "Enough." His voice was rough, pupils blown wide. He hauled her onto the couch, flipping her onto her stomach. One hand pinned her hipbone to the cushions; the other shoved her skirt up. Cold air hit her thighs. "Arch your back." She obeyed, trembling. He spat onto his palm, slicked himself, and drove into her without warning. Serena gasped, knuckles white against the fabric. The stretch burned—deeper, harder than his fingers. He moved with brutal efficiency, each thrust slamming her forward, the couch springs screaming beneath them.
"Look at me," Elijah commanded, gripping her hair, wrenching her head sideways. Her cheek pressed into the cushion. She met his eyes—flat, predatory, utterly detached. "You wanted proof?" He snapped his hips harder, forcing a choked cry from her throat. "This is it. You're not broken. You're used." He leaned close, breath hot on her ear. "Used by predators. Used by cowards. Used by me." His fingers dug into her hip. "Feel it. Own it."
Serena gasped, the brutal rhythm shifting from violation to revelation. Each thrust hammered the alley's terror into submission. She pushed back against him, meeting force with force. Elijah grunted—a sound of surprise, not pain. Her hand snaked behind, fingers locking around his wrist. "Harder," she demanded, voice raw. "Show me how useless I am." The defiance sparked something darkly reciprocal. He slammed into her cervix, making her vision blur. She laughed—a jagged, broken sound. "Yes!"
He withdrew abruptly, flipping her onto her back. The sudden vulnerability stole her breath. Elijah pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his other tracing the tear tracks on her cheeks. "You want ownership?" His thumb pressed against her bottom lip. "Take it." He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tasted like salt and iron. It wasn't gentle—it was a claiming. Serena bit his lower lip until copper bloomed between them. Elijah hissed, pulling back. Blood smeared his chin. Serena smiled, panting. "Mine."
He slid back inside her, slower now, deliberate. Each thrust became a negotiation—force met counter-force, dominance challenged surrender. Serena hooked her ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips. The friction burned white-hot where their bodies joined, a molten seam of sweat-slicked skin and ragged breath. Elijah kept her wrists pinned above her head, his thumb pressing into her pulse point like a claim stamp. "You want ownership?" he rasped, blood still dripping from his chin onto her collarbone. "Then take it." She arched, grinding against him, her teeth bared in a silent snarl.
The rhythm shifted—no longer punitive, but predatory. Elijah released her wrists to grip her hips, fingers digging bruises into flesh as he drove into her with piston-like precision. Serena clawed at his shoulders, nails scraping ridges in the fabric of his coat. The air thickened with the smell of sex and iron, the only sounds their harsh breathing and the wet slap of skin. She came abruptly, a choked gasp tearing from her throat as her body clamped down around him. Elijah didn't slow. He watched her shudder through it, eyes dark and detached, before flipping her onto her knees. One hand fisted in her hair; the other guided himself back inside her from behind.
He fucked her like she was an object—methodical, relentless. Serena's forehead pressed against the coarse weave of the couch cushion, each thrust grinding her cheekbone into the fabric. Her moans dissolved into ragged sobs, then into silence. Elijah leaned over her, his breath hot against her ear. "Still feel broken?" he murmured, the words devoid of cruelty, merely clinical. He pulled her hips back harder, deeper, the angle brutal. Serena whimpered, a sound swallowed by the cushion. "Good."
Her fingers scrabbled against the armrest, seeking purchase. Elijah caught her wrist, pinning it to the small of her back. The new leverage let him drive into her cervix, a sharp, deep puncture that made her gasp. "Own this," he commanded. Serena arched, pushing back against him—not defiance, but synchronization. The rhythm shifted: his thrusts became shorter, sharper, a piston slamming home. She felt the tension coil low in her belly, unfamiliar and electric. "There," Elijah breathed, a rare flicker of approval in his voice. He released her wrist to grip her hipbone, thumb digging into the soft flesh above her pubis. "Don't fight it."
Serena's climax hit like a trucklike force—no tremors, no warning. Her spine locked. A silent scream tore through her throat as her cunt clamped down in violent pulses. Elijah groaned, a low, animal sound. He didn't slow. Didn't stop. He fucked her through it, each stroke dragging her oversensitive nerves raw.
"Again," he demanded, fingers tightening on her hip. She shook her head, tears leaking onto the cushion. "Can't—" The word dissolved into a sob. Elijah pulled her upright against his chest, her back to his front. One hand slid around her throat; the other found her clit, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles. "You can," he murmured against her ear. "You will."
He slammed back inside her from this angle—deeper, impossibly deeper. Serena choked. The pressure built again, relentless. Her legs trembled. Elijah's thumb pressed harder on her clit. "Give it to me." The command vibrated through her bones. She came—quicker this time, sharper—a strangled gasp escaping her lips. Elijah grunted, his rhythm faltering. She felt him swell inside her, hot and thick. He buried himself to the hilt, hips grinding against her ass as he pulsed. Serena whimpered at the sudden heat filling her, the possessive claim.
Elijah withdrew slowly, his breath ragged. Serena collapsed forward onto the couch, trembling. She felt his cum trickle down her inner thigh. Cool air kissed her skin. Elijah stood, adjusting his trousers with unsettling calm. He tossed her a towel. "Clean yourself." Serena caught it numbly. She wiped between her legs, avoiding his gaze. The silence stretched—heavy, charged. Elijah watched her, expression unreadable. "You wanted proof?" he said finally. "You got it." Serena looked up. His eyes held no triumph, no tenderness. Only assessment.
Meanwhile, Urca tore a shimmering, instantaneous portal that spat him out onto the Rurns Estate grounds, well away from the house's expansive windows. His clothes were torn and lightly scorched from the Outer Verse. He repaired them with a quick, nearly-unconscious application of Origin and walked toward the main mansion, trying to shift his focus from cosmic annihilation to domestic negotiation.
He made it as far as the foyer before Lady Seraphina Rurn, Kelna's mother, intercepted him.
"There you are! Look at you!" Seraphina was in a satin dressing gown, her face a mask of furious, demanding scrutiny. "It's nearly dinnertime, Urca! Where have you been? You simply cannot disappear like this! It's irresponsible! Your responsibilities here do not take a vacation simply because you had a night of freedom!"
She hammered him with a rapid-fire lecture about the cost of living, the value of appearances, and his failure to secure an immediate, high-paying position.
Urca leaned back against a marble column, taking it all in stride. Cosmic warfare had provided a strange sense of Zen. Her nagging felt like the buzzing of a particularly aggressive mosquito. He allowed himself to enjoy the absurdity of the scene.
This is the reward for facing down an elder god and surviving a shot from the 89th Plane, he thought with detached amusement. A furious mother-in-law demanding to know why I haven't polished my resume.
He deliberately held the pose of the poor, hen-pecked son-in-law, letting the accusations wash over him. It was a fascinating, grounding experience—a complete rejection of his cosmic self.
I wonder what Seraphina would do if Celeste came back? he mused inwardly, thinking of his supposed original fiancé. That would certainly test the limits of their high society scaffolding. With the thought, he gave Seraphina a bland, apologetic nod that satisfied none of her demands but defused her immediate fury.
With a final, dismissive sigh, Seraphina walked off, still muttering about his uselessness. Urca finally walked up the stairs to his suite.
He found Kelna sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore a simple shift dress, and her expression was unnervingly thoughtful, the usual practiced fragility replaced by a subtle, deep intensity. He dropped all pretense of the pauper and walked in, his expression one of weary, genuine relief.
"Kelna, I—" he started, ready to invent a grand lie. She cut him off. Her voice was steady, utterly devoid of accusation, yet charged with a chilling certainty.
"Urca," she said, her eyes fixed on him, "I need to know. After my healing… was it you? Were you the one who cast the illusion? Did you put the shadow on my legs?"
Urca froze. His exhaustion instantly vanished, replaced by a shock so profound it felt like a physical blow. He stared at her, unable to form a coherent denial or question. The illusion was of high arcane complexity, designed to be indistinguishable from a physical ailment to mundane eyes. She wasn't supposed to see. How could she possibly have known it, and if it was a spell?
The Totem, momentarily silent during his marital negotiations, surged back into his mind, its thought now a mixture of profound terror and cold, analytical excitement.
The vessel is shocked. But this is not an error! the Totem resonated, its voice grinding like stone. It is the acceleration! The primal energies exchanged during your—ahem—passionate bonding have acted as a massive catalyst! The Anchor's innate power is awakening, and at a speed I did not anticipate!
She is gaining consciousness of the spiritual veil faster than I could have imagined, the Totem continued, its tone becoming fascinated. She is seeing my tools. Our Anchor is becoming an Observer. And that, little vessel, changes the equation entirely.
Urca looked at Kelna, his pale face reflecting the realization. The woman he was supposed to keep contained was now a ticking clock, rapidly awakening to the supernatural truth.
He met her unwavering gaze. He couldn't lie. Not now. Not when the stakes had just become existential.
"Yes," Urca admitted quietly, the single word sealing a new, terrifying covenant between them. "I did."