Page 18 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I breathe anyway.
Because I have to. Because I know what happens when you lock yourself inside your own panic.
My palms are slick inside the gloves. The panel at my side clicks once, twice, as the terminal spools up to link. Its dull glow flickers across the seam of my boot. I can smell ozone, coolant, and whatever passed for a cleaning solvent here—a mix of citrus and denial.
“Kalev,” I whisper, just loud enough for the comm.
“I see you,” his voice comes through, low and level. “Hold position. Two guards crossing behind the G-row crate stack. You’re in their shadow line. Don’t move until I say.”
The air feels tighter.
I nod, like he can see me, even though I know he can’t.
Movement up the hall. Clipped boots on steel grates. Heavy gait. Grolgath? No, too even. Not heavy enough. Human patrol, probably League-aligned. Still a problem.
I inhale through my nose. Count five seconds. Exhale through parted lips.
Don’t lock up.
Don’t go back.
Don’t be nine years old with blood under the door and your father’s scream echoing through carbon-fiber walls.
You’re Leah Monroe.
You’re alive.
You’re trained.
Sort of.
And you have exactly eighty-four seconds before the window slams shut.
The patrol slows.
One of them pauses to key something into the central access panel—ten meters up, behind the floodlight. I can see the edge of his sleeve from my angle. I know this uniform. Know how the elbow creases when someone’s fidgeting. Know what it means when someone’s just wasting time instead of doing their damn job.
He’s bored.
Good.
“Kalev,” I say again, quiet. “New position. Panel check at central. If he turns?—”
“Noted. Give me three seconds.”
The comm goes silent.
Three full seconds of white-noise buzzing and boot taps and the edge of my own breath like a war drum in my skull.
Then—
“You’re clear. They’re rerouting to deck six.”
“How?”
“Diverted a coolant alarm. Subtle enough. Go now.”
I move.
