Page 21 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I’m hyperaware of every inch between us.
Too much space. Not enough.
I cross my arms. “You trying to flirt or give me a heart attack?”
“Would one work better than the other?”
I narrow my eyes. “Get out of here before I upgrade my opinion of you.”
He turns, but there’s a grin tucked at the corner of his mouth.
And me?
I’m still standing there with my pulse in my throat and the distinct, dizzying feeling that this was never just about data.
CHAPTER 7
KALEV
The message from Command comes coded in a language meant to soothe. “Performance optimization request,” they call it. “Joint operational continuity.”
What it really means is: We saw what you did. Do it again. But this time, we’re watching closer.
I read the packet three times before burning it. Standard phrasing, sure, but the metadata pings have tripled since yesterday. And now the directive has teeth—daily updates, embedded telemetry, off-record inquiries into personnel profiles. Meaning her.
Leah.
I feel it before I admit it. The shift.
What started as containment—damage management, asset assessment—has moved. Mutated. She's no longer just a question I need to solve. She's a variable I’m adapting to.
I ping her location. Secure line, single-hop proxy. She answers before the second ring.
“Was wondering when the leash would snap,” she says.
I smirk despite myself. “You always this pleasant in the morning?”
“No. I’m worse. Coffee?”
“Already brewed.”
“Give me fifteen.”
The safehouse we use now is technically a condemned outflow depot. Quiet. Off-map. No windows, but I prefer that.
When Leah walks in, she’s dressed in civilian fatigue and defiance. Hair up, neck bare, mouth curved just enough to warn you before she bites.
She tosses a packet on the table.
“Alliance babysitter notes. Thought you’d want a copy.”
I flip it open. Redacted timestamp, inline behavioral flags. Someone's compiling a profile.
Of her.
Of us.
“They’re logging our speech patterns,” I say.
