The words felt like a blow to the chest. He’d known this was coming, but hearing it stated so clinically, so matter-of-factly, made bile rise in his throat.
A child with Melissa.
The thought stirred something primal in him, something that had nothing to do with duty or species survival. He could picture that child with startling clarity—a small form cradled in his arms, skin perhaps tinged with the warm brown of her skin, and dark eyes that might hold some echo of his. A family. A future.
But not like this.
Not with her locked in a cell. Not with the choice stripped away from her. Not with their child destined to be raised as an experiment, poked and prodded and studied like a specimen in Veyalor’s collection.
“And you believe the injection process will go smoothly?” he asked carefully, keeping his voice neutral.
Veyalor turned back to him, one eye ridge raised. “I’ve been considering that. Given the level of compatibility, a more… natural approach might be best.”
Natural approach. Longing surged through him with unexpected strength, but he immediately shoved it aside. Not like this. His nails dug into his palms. “Does Melissa know about this?”
“Not yet. I prefer to wait until we’re certain the bond has reached sufficient strength. No point in agitating the subjects prematurely.” Veyalor waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, in my experience, females adapt more readily after the fact. Less time for anxiety to interfere with the process.”
His vision flickered red at the edges.
After the fact. As if she were a problem to be managed rather than a person to be respected. As if her consent, her feelings, and her autonomy meant nothing at all.
He had tried to tell himself that what they were doing was necessary. That the survival of his species justified difficult choices. That the ends would ultimately justify the means. But standing here now, listening to Veyalor discuss impregnating her like she was livestock, the foundations of that belief crumbled beneath him.
“Is there anything else, Captain?” Veyalor had already turned back to his datapad, clearly considering the conversation finished.
“No.” He forced his hands to unclench. “I’ll continue as directed.”
He left the laboratory before his control could slip any further.
The facility’s corridors had become intimately familiar over the past few weeks. Every turn, every junction, and every security checkpoint was burned into his memory. But now he walked them with new eyes, cataloging details he’d previouslyoverlooked. The supply lift at the eastern end of the building. The maintenance access panels that led to the building’s environmental systems. The rotation schedule of the guards, which left certain areas unmonitored for precisely three minutes every four hours.
He had to find an escape route.
The realization had crystallized in Veyalor’s laboratory, but the truth was it had been building for days. Every time he watched Melissa kiss Robbie’s forehead. Every time she looked at him with those dark eyes that saw past his alien exterior to the male underneath. Every time his tail reached for her without conscious thought, seeking the connection that his body recognized even when his mind tried to deny it.
He couldn’t let them do this to her.
And he knew—knew with absolute certainty—that she would never leave without the other two human females. She asked about them frequently, her brow furrowed with genuine concern for women she’d never even met. That was who she was. Fierce and protective and unwilling to save herself at the cost of others.
It was one of the reasons he?—
He cut the thought off before it could fully form. He wasn’t ready to name what he felt. Not yet. Not when so much was still uncertain.
He needed information first. Naran claimed that the Council hadn’t organized this experiment, but he wasn’t sure he believed that. But how deeply were they involved? Was this a sanctioned operation with full governmental oversight, or something more clandestine? If he could determine that Naran was actingoutside his authority, it might give him leverage. A way to expose the project without implicating himself as a traitor.
Without getting Melissa killed in the process.
His first stop was the communications hub, a small room tucked into the facility’s administrative wing. The Tandoran technician manning the console barely glanced up as he entered. The staff had grown accustomed to his presence, and his captain’s insignia ensured that few questioned his movements.
“I need to access the supply logs,” he said. “To cross-reference with the training camp’s historical records.”
The technician grunted and waved him towards an auxiliary terminal. “Help yourself. System’s running slow today because of some solar interference.”
He settled into the chair and began to work.
The records painted an interesting picture. Supply shipments arrived every ten days via automated transport from a distribution center far enough from the capital that the Council’s oversight was minimal at best. The manifests were deliberately vague, listing contents as “research materials” and “specialized equipment” without further specification.
More telling was what the records didn’t show. No Council authorization codes. No official requisition numbers. No chain of approval that would indicate sanctioned activity. Either Naran had buried the paperwork so deeply that it couldn’t be traced, or he was funding this operation through unofficial channels.
