Page 100 of Scaled Daddy's Secret Heir
Firm. Steady. Professional.
Then I walk out of that room like a soldier carrying death.
Only this time?
I’m not carrying it forthem.
They giveme a pretty decent shuttle for the trip, at least. Civilian transponder, of course, but the superluminal drive is decent.
Inside, there’s just the smell of ozone. The jump ship is silent. I program the route myself—non-registry, untagged, borrowed from one of the Alliance’s many “black sites” that don’t technically exist.
I stare at the coordinates for Glimner a long time before I engage the drive.
She doesn’t know I’m coming.
She doesn’t know what they’ve turned me into.
Or maybe...
She always knew I was never really free.
Until now.
They think they sent me to end her.
But I’m going to endthem.
And I’ll start with whoever so much asthinksabout touching her.
CHAPTER 32
LEAH
The air tastes like salt and dust this morning. Dry wind skates over the scrub flats, warm and persistent, tugging at the edges of the solar sheeting on the roof. I squint up into the sky out of habit—it’s clean today, not a single patrol glider cutting across the high blue. For once.
Inside, the kettle hisses its soft warning, steam curling toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Clancy left half of his breakfast uneaten, again—too busy setting traps for the feathered scavengers that circle the edge of our garden. I can still hear him, low and steady, talking to himself out there under his breath like he’s narrating a documentary. His voice drifts in through the open window: sharp, inquisitive, full of life.
I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, a mug warm in my hands. The quiet hum of life here, on the edge of everything, has stitched itself into me. These days are predictable. Safe.
Which is why when the knock comes, it doesn’t register as real.
It’s not the rustling clap of palm fronds against the outer walls. Not the hollow ding of a drone delivery chime. Not even the chittering call of Maesa, who always sings the first note of her knock like she’s announcing herself to a stage.
It’s just—knuckles. Hard. Intentional.
Two sharp raps.
Then silence.
I frown. My pulse ticks up a notch.
Nobody knocks.
Nobody evengets closeenough to knock.
I set the mug down carefully, quietly, and take three soft steps to the door. The air feels heavier now—like the temperature dropped a degree, or maybe the gravity got just a little thicker.
Another knock.
