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“There’s a little house nearby. I was on my way there. I’ll take you, get you some water, and we can discuss next steps.”
“Next steps,” I repeat, dreamily. I’m going to discuss next steps with elk-man. Whoops. I hope I didn’t say that out loud.
Chapter Six
Sylas
My survival—all splicers’ survival—depends on secrecy. I should be racing to the reject barracks to inform them there’s been a breach. Instead, I’ve got this woman cradled in my arms and am loping away from them, toward the Quonset hut I was originally bound for. Tater’s hot on my hooves.
My rut was already raging, but with Cally’s tantalizing scent curling in the air around me, it’s ramping even higher. Now that I’m clutching her to my chest, it’s hard to think of anything but completing my biological imperative. The urge to mount her, to slide into her wet heat, is becoming desperate.
Focus, Sylas.
My mind is flying in ten directions at once. I must keep her safe, but also need to ensure she doesn’t escape. Do I tell the military? First things first. I’ll sit her down, hand her some water, and together we’ll explore her options.
The Quonset is butted close to the corner of the fence. The domed metal building looks industrial from the outside, but when I open the door, I’m surprised to find the Army decorated it with a splicer’s comfort in mind.
It’s one big open room with windows on all four sides. There’s a small kitchen in one corner. Under the vaulted ceiling, there’s a couch, two comfortable chairs, one bed big enough for someone Grizz’s size, and a TV. The far corner has a small, enclosed room that must be a bathroom.
After easing Cally onto an easy chair, I set the pack full of food, clothes, and books on the kitchen counter, then ponder how to lock the woman in with me. There will be hell to pay if she escapes.
I easily lift the sturdy three-cushion couch and shove it against the only door. She could push it out of the way, but it will take some effort and make enough noise that she can’t get far without alerting me. That will have to do for now.
“You’re locking me in?” She arches a brow as her lips settle into an angry line.
“Not exactly.” I shrug, then realize that was a bald-faced lie.
She’s no longer looking at me with fear in her eyes. Instead, her gaze is focused on the very large bed. For a moment, the bed also consumes my attention as my mind throws me a mental picture album of dozens of filthy things I could do in it right this minute—to her. Things that would relieve my ever-increasing urge to rut. My cock likes that idea, thumping against my flesh and threatening to burst out of the waistband of my shorts.
Though I’m trying to take my thoughts off the increased blood flow to my genitals, I gather the presence of mind to tell her, “I can’t let you leave.” I want her to hear the reluctance in my voice. “It isn’t just me. You’d be putting all of us splicers in danger.”
“You already said that. What do you propose we do?”
To keep as far from her as possible in this small, enclosed space, I sit on the couch, which is jammed against the door. Placing my elbows on my knees, I slow my breathing and try to think while Tater Tot’s nails click on the tile floor as he sniffs every single thing in the room, even as he never takes his wary gaze off me.
"I have no proposal, but here are the facts. If I report you now or you attempt escape, they’ll incarcerate you. What if we hide you here to get acquainted? If you convince Colonel Slater you won't expose us, he might allow you to roam freely like the civilian women paired with splicers on the property."
"Human women are here?"
I explain that we lived underground after our rescue, calling ourselves splicers because of our mixed DNA. The army recently moved us here, pairing twenty of us with women to live on the north quadrant.
"They signed non-disclosure agreements to stay two years, hoping we're socialized enough by then to go public."
She pooches her lips. “I see little difference between the choices. All options lock me here until you go public, but two years beats decades.”
"The third option means you won't be jailed, perhaps even allowed to roam. For someone who was caged almost all his life, I’ll tell you, Cally, that’s a world of difference.”
She puts her head in her hands and moans. Tater hurries to her side and nudges his head against hers. Perhaps I have a smidgeon of canine in me, because it’s as though I can read his mind. He’s trying to comfort her.
“I have a life, Sylas. I did nothing wrong but try to retrieve my dog.”
She keeps one hand covering her face but uses the other to furrow through his black and white spotted fur. I feel a pang of jealousy, wishing she’d pet me like that. I fantasize her feminine fingers combing through the thick hair on my legs, and shiver when my body takes that image and runs with it. Then I scold myself. Why would I want to be treated like a pet?
Besides, I don’t want to be petted. My rut is growing more powerful every minute, and sweet touches to my flanks and the top of my head are the last thing on my mind. The only touches I want are on the swollen cock insistently jutting from between my hips.
Chapter Seven
Cally
