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Just keep moving forward.
I do move.
Almost one full step before karma has another cackle at my expense.
Because Commander Bridget Fissure—beloved commander, perfect gamma, and the biological mother responsible for my pheromonal curse—marches into the toxic air of this godsforsook morning.
Training uniform crisp. Posture ninety degrees. Scent as sweet and cloying as high-fructose corn syrup.
She struts out of the building like she’s shooting a recruiting pamphlet. Meanwhile, I’m rumpled, bleeding, and rubbing my aching ass like a weird, guilty raccoon.
Bridget’s regal gaze tilts, and a micro-flinch works her porcelain cheek, communicating shame, disgust, and loathing in a single stomach-stomping flicker.
Like she knows the depraved fanfics I have bookmarked, wishes I would stop appropriating government air, and disapproves of every facet of my existence from my disheveled blonde hair to the whacky fucking ability that spills the otherwise secret of my birth.
Hierarchy requires me to greet her, but I can’t force a clipped “Commander” out of my choked throat.
She knows I’m her daughter.
I don’t think she knows I know, because she’s never acknowledged me, but some genetic data got left out during one of my sessions at the lab. That’s how I connected the dots on why I was sent to an orphanage at birth.
Mom is the government’s golden girl.
Dad runs a cartel.
She went into heat on an undercover mission, and bam.
Twenty-four years later, I’m still her biggest regret.
And that flinch.
Like I’m the one causing her the pain.
Like I chose to exist.
I didn’t choose any of this, but here I am, pretending to be anyone but me, trying to live to bluff another day.
Still hurts like a foul ball to the throat.
But I don’t need Bridget’s love. Just her signature, clearing me to leave.
Should be easy.
She’s a pro at tossing me away.
“Twenty-Six,” she barks, quick to regain composure, even though her candy-sweet scent sours every time she’s forced to look my way. “You assaulted an agent.”
“I—”
“No excuses,” she snaps. “Report to the lab for control assessment.”
Anger prickles my armpits, warning that my scent glands are ready to riot.
I must shift wrong, because Bridget reaches for the pocket where she carries my controller.
We both know she’ll hit the button, and even without recharging, my manacles have more than enough juice for two more jolts.
Up to four, actually.
