Page 23 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
She pockets it without looking.
“I’ll read it over lunch. Unless you want to hold my hand through the big words.”
“I think you can handle yourself.”
“Damn right I can.”
The air shifts again.
Not heavy. Not light.
Just charged. Like we’re two magnets figuring out how close we can get before things start sparking.
Later, at night, I don’t sleep.
I scan the compound layouts three times, check entry schedules, evaluate fallback options. All standard. All efficient.
But my focus keeps drifting—to her.
To what happens if she slips up.
To what they’ll do to her if she becomes inconvenient.
I run contingencies.
New exit points.
Altered ID threads.
If needed, I could frame her extraction as a double-blind misfire. Sell a cover story. Get her out.
But that would mean cutting ties. Burning routes. Losing her.
I’m not ready for that.
Not yet.
The next morning, we train.
Surveillance drills. Comms insertion. Mock intercepts. She absorbs everything with unsettling speed.
When she challenges something in the plan, she does it like a blade—not blunted, not rude, just sharp enough to make me check my footing.
“Blind spot here,” she says, pointing at a vector.
“You think the patrol will cut early?”
“I think if they don’t, the civvie line will. You’ll have a pileup that traps your asset.”
She’s right.
I adjust the sequence. Update the fallback.
“You’re not just showing off, are you?” I ask.
“Would it work?”
“Depends on what you’re after.”
