Page 90 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
I lie back on the slab, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling slowly, deliberately.
Somewhere out there, Leah is alive.
I don’t need to turn that into poetry.
I just need to stay alive long enough to prove it mattered.
CHAPTER 28
LEAH
The sky over Glimner is so blue it hurts to look at sometimes—like the gods took too much pride in their palette. Warm ocean air rolls in through the high-vented shutters, sweet with brine, hibiscus, and that ever-present tang of ionized tech from the floating lights that hover lazily over the settlement’s spires. I stand barefoot in the kitchen pod, sunlight painting warm shapes across the floor as Clancy hums off-key in the yard.
Our little house is tucked on the quieter edge of the island—far from the showy pulse of the casinos and synth-concerts that make tourists giddy. We’re close enough to trade when we need to, but not so close that I have to explain why my son can catch a falling pan full of boiling water without flinching.
This world is supposed to be paradise. For us, it’s a hiding place.
I glance out the wide window. Clancy's crouched by the lagoon, poking a stick at the edge of a sand-skater nest, but careful not to hurt anything. His black curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat, shirt abandoned somewhere between the porch and the fig grove. A sunshield node pulses faintly above his head, keeping his body temp regulated. He hates it, saysit makes his hair spark, but I made it non-negotiable after the heatstroke scare last cycle.
“Clancy Thorne,” I call, “if that stick ends up in the water again, you're the one swimming in after it.”
He grins back at me—wide, dimpled, devastating—and yells, “You meanagainagain, or just like, first today?”
I sigh. I can’t stay annoyed with that face. Even when it’s covered in sand and minor destruction.
He’s not like other kids.
Six years old and already reads with more comprehension than half the traders I haggle with. Builds rigged traps from fruit nets and hoverspec parts. He once reprogrammed the house comm to play music every time someone says "banana."
But it’s more than that.
Hemoveslike someone born under pressure—centered, controlled. And when he doesn’t think I’m watching, he tests himself. Heat. Speed. Strength. He ran full-tilt into a steel barricade last week and laughed because it only rattled. He climbed a comms tower two months ago just to see if the signal got better at the top.
And he never bruises. Not once. I know because I check every night. Just in case.
He’s... too much of his father to ignore.
The thought tightens something behind my ribs. I sip from my mug and let the burn anchor me.
Clancy jogs back up the path, dragging a palm frond behind him like a victory banner. He plops down at my feet and tugs the hem of my skirt.
“Mama. Did Papa ever swim?”
The question lands like a stone in my gut.
I crouch, brushing sand from his cheek. “Swim?”
He nods. “Like here. In oceans. With fish. Was he good at it?”
I could lie. Say yes. Say he loved it. But the truth is, I don’t know. Kalev grew up on dry dust and concrete bunkers, not water and coral reefs. I don’t even know if hecouldswim.
But Clancy’s looking at me like he needs something real.
“I think,” I say slowly, “he would've learned just to keep up with you. And he would’ve hated every second until you laughed.”
Clancy giggles, then leans into my side. “He sounds like a dork.”
I snort. “The biggest.”
