Page 26 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir

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“I didn’t expect this,” I say. “You. This.” I wave vaguely at the space between us.

“What’d you expect?”

“Orders. Ultimatums. A guilt trip maybe.”

“I don’t do guilt trips.”

“Because you don’t have guilt?”

“Because I don’t waste it.”

That gets another laugh. Smaller this time. Bitter on the edges, but real.

We sit there. In that strange, not-uncomfortable hush.

After a long pause, I say, “I still hear the boots sometimes. In my sleep.”

“I know.”

And somehow, I believe he does.

“I’m not used to... anyone sticking around after I say that out loud.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No. You’re really not.”

The heat between us shifts again. Quiet. Not tense, just... aware. I catch him looking. Not at my face. At my throat. My collarbone. Just a flick of his gaze—but I see it.

I don’t call it out.

He doesn’t apologize.

It lingers there between us.

He says nothing else. Just waits. Like he knows what silence can do. What it means to hold a space, not fill it.

And I let the stillness wrap around me.

Maybe it’s not safety.

But maybe it’s the next best thing.

Maybe it’s trust.

CHAPTER 9

KALEV

Sub-Layer 12 stinks like a broken promise.

It’s the kind of place even ghosts avoid—where the walls sweat rust and the air tastes like melted circuitry. My boots click on the grated floor with an uneven rhythm, one step off from human cadence, but perfect for keeping me alert. Above, coolant lines hiss in bursts that mimic breath. Below, there’s only dark and old secrets.

I’m not fond of moving operations this deep, but the intel leaves no room for debate.

Ataxian presence confirmed. Buried under Spuel like a rotting tooth. Alliance wants extraction-ready data. They want names, logistics paths, entry protocols. They want it fast. And they want it clean.

It won’t be clean.

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