Page 25 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
A breath rattles loose from my chest.
“I remember thinking: if I breathe too loud, I’ll die.”
“You didn’t,” he says.
“Yeah. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“No. That’s the point.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it.”
“I do.” He leans forward now, forearms on his knees, golden eyes locked to mine. “Survival isn’t shameful.”
“I didn’t fight.”
“You lived.”
“I didn’t save them.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
My laugh comes out jagged. “You’re really bad at pep talks.”
“Not giving one.”
“Oh?”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
That shuts me up.
He straightens. Still calm. Still granite carved into a person.
“I’ve seen too many operatives crack because someone told them surviving made them weak. Like their life had to be earned in blood. It’s a lie.”
“I’ve been living with that lie for a decade.”
“Time to stop.”
I blink. My throat burns suddenly and unreasonably.
“Great,” I rasp. “Now I’m going to cry in front of a seven-foot murder lizard.”
Kalev leans back, finally, with the barest trace of a smirk. “We prefer ‘death-scaled diplomats.’”
A laugh breaks out of me without warning. Not pretty. Not delicate. Just loud and sharp.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Better than ‘seven-foot sad boy with access to orbital lasers.’”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You’re recovering.”
That shuts me up. Again.
I stare into the mug. It’s empty now. Didn’t even notice.
