Page 131 of Stripped By the Alien

"Custody?" My voice comes out flatter than I mean it to. "She's not property. She's not a prisoner. She was just rescued from actual slavers, Inquisitor, and you're standing here with paperwork like this is some kind of routine transfer. You're no better than the Gzet!"

"It is not quite the same, but if you wish, I can relay your opinion to the Queen." Nothing in his tone changes. "I understand this is difficult to hear. I assure you, nothing about her treatment will resemble what she endured on that station. But the Queen's grant is not a request, and I did not come here expecting to argue about it."

"Then you came to the wrong fucking ship." I don't move.

"Nora." Sophia's hand closes on my arm, gentle but firm. "Don't."

"Sophia—"

"I know what a formal grant means." Her voice is steady, controlled, entirely too calm for what's happening, and I understand, watching her, that she's already decided how she's going to survive this: by refusing to give him anything at all, not fear, not anger, nothing he can use. "Fighting it here doesn't help either of us. Not against something the Queen herself signed off on."

Brax'tok's gaze moves to her, and something in his expression, brief, unreadable, gone immediately, flickers and settles back into practiced calm.

"Sensible," he says. "I find that a relief, given how eventful your friend's introduction to the Brood has been."

"Don't mistake sensible for pleased," Sophia says evenly, holding his eyes without flinching. "I'll come. But I won't make it easy for you to feel good about it."

Something almost like respect crosses his face, gone as quickly as it came. "I wouldn't expect anything less.” He gestures toward the membrane. "Whenever you're ready."

Sophia turns to me, and for just a moment the composure cracks. Just enough for me to see how much this is costing her to walk through calmly instead of screaming.

"Find out what you can," she murmurs, too quiet for the others to catch. "About him. About what he actually wants. I'll do the same from wherever he puts me."

"I'm not letting this go," I tell her, fierce and useless and meaning every word. “I have told the Inquisitor before what will happen if he goes too far. And he knows he's close now. Look at him tremble in fear!”

It's not true, but Brax'tok sends me a glance with fire in it, the first time I see much emotion in him. “Know your place, Junior Harrower!”

I glare right back. “If you pick a fight with me, know that I will end it.”

"It's fine." Sophia squeezes my hand once, the marked one, and lets go. "Nobody will let this go."

She walks toward the membrane on her own feet, head high, flanked by two Harrowers who tower over her, and doesn't look back even once. Neither does the Inquisitor when he follows her out.

“Semper Supra!” I yell after them, as loud as I can.

Apollo twitches beside me, startled by the sound.

The membrane closes behind them, and the stall goes very quiet, and beside me the calf presses his trembling, wordless warmth against my hand as if he understands, in whatever way he understands anything, that something has just gone terribly wrong.