Page 150 of Torment Me Knot
My hands go flat on the table and stay there. I keep my jaw loose. The longer game. Always the longer game.
“I'm a scientist,” Wallace says. “What I do here, what I've been doing, is foundational work. I'm not an interrogation subject, Mr. Dawson. I'm a resource, and I'd like to be treated accordingly.” He lets us sit with that for a moment, as though he's making us an offer we can't refuse. “I want continuedaccess to a laboratory. Basic materials. Oversight I can negotiate the terms of. In exchange, I'll consult with law enforcement on outstanding cases, assist with identification of network members, and provide evidence in prosecution.”
He gazes at Levi. “I understand you're Omega Affairs. I could be genuinely useful to your division.”
Levi's jaw moves once. That's all.
This waste of space has decided we need him more than we hate him. The terrifying part is that he might be right. The development is his. The network is his. Every name we still don't have is sitting somewhere inside his skull. He's betting it all on the fact that his usefulness will matter more to us than watching him rot in a cell.
“You've got the only existing research into induced bonding responses,” Wallace continues. “The scent accelerant alone is worth more than anything your division has produced in ten years.” He leans forward slightly. “I'm not asking for freedom. I'm asking to keep working. The work doesn't stop because you put me in a room.”
Adrian uncrosses his leg and leans forward on his elbows. “And the people from Ashcroft,” he says. “The ones in transit when we raided.”
Wallace's expression shifts. Not much. A degree of patience, the way a man looks when he's being asked something he finds mildly beneath him. “I can speak to the organizational structure. The key personnel. The inventory, however, was managed separately.”
“The… inventory,” I say.
“The subjects in transit at the time of the raid.” He says it the same way he'd say the quarterly report. “That wasn't my end of the operation. I didn't manage distribution.”
The table creaks under my palms.
“You said subjects in transit,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Shipment,” I say. “Cargo. Is that what we're calling them.”
“Mr. Dawson.” He sounds almost tired. “The terminology is irrelevant.”
His gaze roams over me. I'll have to scrub my skin later.
“Actually, I've been wanting to speak with you specifically. Your pack is quite remarkable, Mr. Dawson.” He glances at my collar. He's looking for the bond marks, and he'll find them, because I didn't cover them.
His eyes go to the marks when he sees them. He isn't seeing Espie's name on my skin. He's seeing data. Not the six weeks it took to get here. The nest, the heat, Aubrey's hand in mine at three in the morning. He is seeing a configuration he has never documented before and he wants it.
“A six-member scent-match. Two omegas, both matched to all four alphas, and to each other.” He sits back. He sounds genuinely enthused. “And your fourth alpha. A biological female alpha. The lock presentation in a female-designation alpha is already rare enough to be clinically significant. But scent-matched to a pack of that size.” He shakes his head. “The data there is extraordinary.”
“Dr. Wallace,” Adrian says. “We're getting ahead of ourselves.”
“You could be changing the lives of beta couples everywhere,” Wallace says. His attention shifts to me. “Think about that. Ordinary betas. No designation advantages, no biological match capacity. What I could develop from your pack's tissue profiles—a synthetic scent-matching compound that's replicable, distributable—would be the most significant pharmaceutical development of the last century.” He pauses. “I'd offer you a percentage of the proceeds, of course.”
I'm on my feet, the chair flipping on its back behind me. The back of my fist connects with his jaw and his head snaps sideways and he slams his bandaged wrist against the table edgetrying to catch himself. The impact shoots all the way up my arm into my shoulder and Adrian is between me and the monster before I can take another step toward him.
“Kev,” Adrian says. Low.
Wallace straightens. His jaw has gone red. He tries to touch it and recoils when his stump hits his face.
“You'll regret that, Mr. Dawson,” he says.
“Probably,” I say.
“We're very sorry about that,” Adrian says. He does not sound sorry. He sits back down and smooths his jacket. “Dr. Wallace. We want to make this work for everyone. Genuinely. I know this week hasn't been comfortable. Let's see if we can change that.”
Oh, he's good.
Adrian leans back as though he's genuinely negotiating with Wallace. “But I need one thing first. The people transported out of Ashcroft the night of the raid. You initiated that transfer. Give me a contact name.”
“I told you,” Wallace says. “That's a different operation.”
