Page 76 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I see it over and over again.
His knees hitting the deck.
His hands behind his back.
The way he looked at me like he was carving my face into his memory because he knew he’d never see it again.
He chose this.
He chose death.
For me.
The grief hits before the pod even clears orbit.
It hits like a physical thing.
Like someone punched a hole straight through my ribcage and left me bleeding out into vacuum.
I curl inward, clutching my stomach, my chest, my ruined leg—anything I can hold onto that still exists.
My sobs echo off the inside of the pod.
I don’t care.
There is no dignity left in me.
Only loss.
Only the terrible, unbearable knowledge that the man I love just surrendered himself to monsters so I could live.
And I don’t know how I’m supposed to live with that.
CHAPTER 25
KALEV
The first thing I notice is the cold. Not the normal cold of an air-conditioned facility—thisis a cold that bites straight to the bone, a creeping chill that slides under armor and skin like a thief in the night. My wrists are cuffed behind me, wrists slick with old blood that’s crusted dry and beginning to itch. My breathing is shallow, my mouth dry, and every muscle in my body is telling me torun—but none of them are cooperating.
I open my eyes.
White light. Harsh and relentless. It doesn’t reflect off surfaces so much as itpiercesthem, bleaching color out of the room until everything is sharp lines and sharp edges. Concrete walls. Metal chair. No windows. No softness. No mercy.
The air hums with a low, mechanical vibration—like the building itself is breathing. That hum presses against my ribs as though it expects a response.
My head thumps, memory slow like molasses in gravity. I remember the evacuation pod. Her face behind the viewport. Her voice breaking the silence with one word I never intended to speak aloud:love. I remember the floor falling away beneath us—her sobs trailing me like echoes in a tomb.
Then nothing. Darkness. And now this.
I test my wrists. The cuffs don’t budge. Not a click. Not even a shiver. Just cold metal biting into my skin and a reminder that I’m not in charge here.
I lift my head. A figure steps forward—tall, calibrated, face obscured by the reflective sheen of an armored visor. I can’t see his eyes, but Ifeelthem—like knives gliding over exposed bone.
“Good morning,” he says, voice smooth and unsettlingly calm. “Or is it still night for you?”
His tone is casual, but there’s steel underneath it. Like he’s testing water with a blade.
I don’t answer.
