Page 36 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir

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Then she says, “What flavor was the bar?”

I blink. “What?”

“You remember the bar. What flavor was it?”

“Uh. Peanut synth. I think.”

“And did the kid eat it?”

I frown. “I… don’t know.”

She nods, like that proves something. “See? That’s the problem. You remember the blood. Not the moment that mattered.”

“What, you think the flavor of a ration bar’s more important than a seven-body count?”

“No,” she says. “I think it’s the only part that proves you were still human when it happened.”

I stare at her. Then look away.

Because she’s not wrong.

And because I don’t know what to do with being seen that clearly.

We don’t speak for the rest of the cycle.

When the sleep shift rolls around, I lie down on the floor mat—not the cot. Give her the space. I close my eyes and pretend the hum of the dampeners is a lullaby instead of a countdown.

But just before I fade, I hear her voice.

Soft. Distant.

“Don’t stop telling me.”

My eyes snap open.

She doesn’t repeat it.

But I don’t need her to.

Because I won’t.

Not now.

Not after this.

Because whatever this is—whatever edge we’re toeing—it’s not tactical anymore.

CHAPTER 12

LEAH

Some nights, it gets so quiet I can hear my pulse in my teeth.

Not my ears. Myteeth. Like the tension’s burrowed into the bone and started knocking from the inside. The low thrum of blood moving too fast in a body trying too hard to play it cool.

I’m not cool.

I’m nowhere near it.

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