Page 30 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I clear my throat. Not because I need to, but because walking into silence makes me feel like I’ve already failed some test.
He doesn’t turn.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Clock’s on Spuel time,” I shoot back, dropping my bag by the cot. “Spuel time’s always late.”
Now he glances over his shoulder. There’s a flicker—something like amusement, buried deep—but his expression smooths back to neutral before I can claim it.
“New patrol pattern shifted,” he says. “Coalition-aligned drones started ghosting Dock 8. Had to reroute optics to cover both sectors.”
“So we’re babysitting the quiet kidsandthe ones trying to sneak knives into their lockers. Awesome.”
“No one gets stabbed if we’re doing it right.”
I snort, peeling off my jacket. “Optimism. Look at you evolving.”
He goes back to the terminal. I move to the far wall, where our shared surveillance setup lives—screens patched together from three different tech eras, one of them buzzing faintly like it’s got a grudge.
Every feed shows the same thing: Spuel’s undergut. Heat-signatures. Glitched motion tracking. Timestamps blinking like dying stars.
It’s chaos. It’s home.
And it’s mine now.
Because somewhere between the moment I said yes to this mission and the second I felt the hatch seal behind me today, I realized something dangerous. Something permanent.
I’m not afraid of this anymore.
The fear’s stillthere—sure. Like a scar, not an open wound. It hums under my skin when the alarms test-run at odd hours or when a shift drags long enough to stir memories that shouldn’t be touched. But it’s notin chargeanymore.
I’ve lived my whole life reacting. This time, I chose.
And Kalev notices. Not that he says anything. That’d be too easy.
But hispresencechanges.
Like when he walks past me now, checking the wall panel—he moves closer than he used to. Not enough to crowd me. Just enough that I feel the heat of him. Enough that if something went sideways, he could shield me in a second.
It’s not protective in a patronizing way. It’s… spatial. Strategic. Calculated like everything he does.
But still.
Noticed.
Later, when we’re reviewing footage—me cross-legged on the cot, him standing like the air’s not allowed to touch his spine—I ask, “How many exits did you map?”
He doesn’t blink. “Seven. Three functional. One’s sealed. Two require risk.”
“And the seventh?”
His eyes flick to me. “You’re standing on it.”
I grin despite myself. “Nice to know you’re planning my escape routes.”
“Planning both of ours.”
That shouldn't make my pulse skip. Shouldn’t make heat lick low in my stomach. But I’m learning all kinds of new reflexes these days.
