Page 35 of Untamed

“Compliance is a spectrum, Orion.” The suit smiles without putting anything human into it. “Maddox murdered a man. His legal identity is already functionally buried, and the only reason he is sleeping in a private house instead of a federal block is because Wolfscorge considers him useful.” He pauses long enough to make sure I am listening. “If that usefulness changes, so does his placement.”

I feel the blood leave my face before I can hide it. An image hits me of Arlo under fluorescent lights, one arm strapped down while somebody pushes a needle into him and calls it procedure. Neither man says anything else because they already know they used the right name. “What do you want?”

“A routine follow-up,” the doctor says. “The permanent bond is a significant milestone, and we need data. Blood, tissue, neurological responses to shifting under stress.” He taps the tablet once. “You cooperate with us, and Arlo stays in that house. His file remains buried. Do you understand the arrangement?”

I would let them burn me alive before I let them put Arlo back under a needle, and I know immediately that I mean it. “I understand.”

“Excellent.” The suit steps aside and gestures toward the medical wing. “We’ll begin now. Mr. Maddox does not need to be troubled with the details, especially when he is finally finding some peace.”

The examination room is white light and stainless steel, clean enough that every old memory of restraint becomes easier to smell. Ozone and industrial cleaner sit at the back of my throat while my animal instincts scrape at the inside of my skin, irritated by the low ceiling and the glass partition separating the doctor from anything he orders other people to do. A tech waits beside a rolling tray with needles, vials, and a recorder already blinking red. There are straps folded against the table even though nobody has mentioned restraints.

“Shift,” the doctor says from behind the glass. “We need to measure skeletal expansion. Now, Orion.”

I keep my eyes on him for another second before I reach for the shift. The familiar weight of fur and muscle moves through me, but the room changes the feeling of it; instead of relief, every widening bone makes the walls seem closer. My hands hit the floor as paws, shoulders crowding the table beside me, and the ceiling hangs low enough that I duck instinctively. The recorder clicks while the doctor watches a clock.

“Forty-two seconds. Visible distress. Heart rate elevated.” He looks toward the tech. “Take the blood samples.”

Every animal instinct in me strains toward the needle when the tech approaches my haunch. I lock my paws against the floor and fix my attention on Arlo sitting on the porch at dusk, one ankle crossed over the other while he pretends not to notice me watching him. The needle sinks in. I keep the image until the vial fills and the tech backs away.

“Human,” the doctor says. I shift back because I know exactly what happens if I refuse. Sweat has already started at the base of my neck by the time my hands return, and my knees hit the edge of the paper-covered table harder than I mean them to. The doctor records the time without looking at my face.

I am still trying to pull a full breath into my lungs. “Give me a minute.”

“Again, Orion.” The tech resets the tray while the doctor checks the timer. “Or we note noncompliance and review Mr. Maddox’s placement.”

Arlo’s name does what the command could not. I force the shift through muscles that have not stopped aching from the last one, shoulders wrenching wider until my hands hit the floor as paws again. The room smells sharper in bear form, every trace of cleaner and fear and old blood amplified until my stomach rolls. Forty-eight seconds goes into the recorder this time.

I snarl through my teeth, but I drag myself back into human skin. By the third cycle, sweat has soaked through the paper beneath me and both thighs shake whenever I try to stand. The tech reaches for another vial before I have finished changing, and I slap his hand away on reflex. He freezes, looking toward the glass instead of at me.

The doctor does not raise his voice. “Control yourself. We are measuring recovery, not testing whether you can intimidate staff.” He waits until I am sitting again before asking, “How often do you experience feral spikes since the bond?”

“I don’t know.” My voice is rough from shifting and from everything I’m refusing to say. I keep my eyes on the wall instead of giving him anything else.

“The bond is permanent. Do you feel Arlo’s arousal? Does it trigger a shift?” The doctor leans toward the glass, eyes narrowed behind his lenses. “We’ve seen accelerated gestation in the Vulpis line. Slate’s biology responded to the Alpha bite with immediate hormonal shifts. Are you experiencing increased heat cycles? Do you feel a drive to provide offspring for the Maddox line?”

I stare at the wall and give him nothing. The tech changes the collection tray behind me, glass tapping softly against glass while the doctor waits for an answer. When I still do not speak, he checks something on his tablet and exhales through his nose.

“Orion, the suit is watching the feed. Don’t make this difficult.”

“No.” I look straight at him. “I’m not in heat, I’m not trying to give Arlo cubs, and whatever happens between us is none of your fucking business.”

The doctor makes a note without reacting. “We’ll see. The biological imperative is rarely a matter of choice.” He signals the tech toward the door. “You’re dismissed for today. We’ll see you Thursday. Remember our arrangement.”

Thursday arrives before my body has stopped remembering Tuesday. The soreness in my shoulders is mostly gone, but my skin still tightens whenever I smell antiseptic, and I spend breakfast keeping that reaction out of the bond. Arlo asks why I am wearing a shirt indoors. I tell him I am cold, and he gives me a look that says he knows I am lying but has not decided whether to call me on it.

The doctor is waiting in the same room without the suit this time, which makes the threat less visible rather than less present. I stay near the door in human form, hands loose only because fists would give him another observation to record. The leather restraints are already laid out across the table. A low-voltage prod rests beside the recorder.

“Today we’re testing the limits of the bond,” the doctor says. “We’ve noticed oral grounding is a primary behavioral trait. Get on the table, Orion.”

“No.” I do not move closer. “You said blood samples and shifting tests. You didn’t say restraints, sexual conditioning, or whatever else you’re about to dress up as data.”

The doctor looks up and taps a command on his tablet. A screen on the wall flickers to life with Arlo’s name across the top: MADDOX, ARLO. FELONY MURDER. Beneath it, a red stamp reads ADMINISTRATIVE REVIEW PENDING. My stomach drops before I can stop it.

“The Council is waiting for my report,” the doctor says quietly. “They are very interested in whether this bond has actually stabilized you or whether you are just as volatile as the day you arrived. If you are uncontrollable, the experiment is a failure.” He gestures toward Arlo’s file. “If the experiment fails, there is no reason to preserve his current placement. He can be in the primary facility by tomorrow morning.”

The red stamp stays on the screen while I look from the leather restraints to the doctor. Whatever this room does to me, walking away gives them a reason to take Arlo somewhere I cannot reach him. I climb onto the table and lie down before they ask again. The tech fastens one wrist, then the other, and I keep my hands open even when the leather tightens over skin that remembers every restraint before this one.

“Good,” the doctor says. “Initiate the first stimulus.”