Page 11 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
But I still keep my cup between us like it’s a damn riot shield.
Every instinct I’ve ever honed is flashing amber. His tone’s warm, casual. But his questions are pressure probes. Light taps looking for fault lines.
He says he's from “Station Ops.” Which, sure. And I’m a royal heiress vacationing in the slums because I love the smell of coolant and existential dread in the morning.
We volley for a while. Banter. Punchline fencing.
But beneath the jokes, I hear it. The clockwork edge in his voice. Like he’s running dual processors—one for conversation, one mapping me in real-time.
He doesn’t even drink his coffee. Just holds it like a prop.
And then, mid-convo, mid-snark, mid-normalcy?—
He drops the hammer.
“You’ve got a real talent for knowing which crates need ‘reinspection,’” he says, smooth as synth-silk. “And which door codes keep your people breathing a little easier.”
My spine doesn’t snap straight. That’d be too obvious.
But my pulse does a little suicide sprint up my throat.
I nod, slow, like he’s just complimented my hair. “Do I know you?”
“No. But I know enough.”
My gaze flicks past him—one exit to the left, one behind the counter. The corner of my tray is sharp enough to gouge a throat if I angle it right. The server bot at my twelve is loaded with boiling brew. Could dump it across his legs and run.
I catalog options.
Weapons. Barriers. Escape.
And still keep smiling.
Because this is how it works. You survive by being sweet enough not to be feared and sharp enough not to be followed.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t press.
Just sets the cup down—gently—and says, “If I were League, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d already be archived.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m not here to hurt you, Leah. Or anyone under your umbrella.”
He knows my name.
Not the barista-mangled version. Not the misfiled ID tag one. The real one. The way my mom used to say it when I stayed out too late.
I stare him down.
“What do you want?”
He leans back. Not relaxed. Measured.
“Your skills. Your discretion. And your alignment with not being dead.”
“That last one’s conditional.”
