Three columns of data. Each topped with a name:
Dorian Ashworth
Oakley Sinclair
Corvus Barclay
Below each name, the same impossible number:99.97% compatibility
I stare at it. Blink. The numbers don't change.
"That's not possible."
"It's extremely improbable," Corvus agrees, his voice still level. "But as you can see, not impossible."
"No." I shake my head, back up a step. My hip hits a bookshelf. "You faked this. Made up the data—"
"To what end?" He stands, coming around the desk with that controlled predatory movement. "We already have you here. We don't need justification."
My hands are shaking. I grip the bookshelf behind me.
"You're not just compatible with Dorian," he says quietly. "You're compatible with all three of us. A triple fated bond." He holds out the tablet. "The odds of this occurring are approximately one in fifty million."
"Stop." The word comes out broken.
"The genetic markers are definitive—"
"I said stop!" I'm shouting now, hands over my ears like a child. "Stop talking about markers and data and compatibility like I'm a fucking science experiment!"
He does stop. For a moment, we just stare at each other.
"This isn't an experiment," he says finally. "It's an explanation. For why you're dying from rejecting us. Why we've been going insane without you. Why—"
"Why you think you own me?"
"Why we're connected whether you accept it or not."
The words land like blows. I slide down to sit on the floor, back against the bookshelf. My body can't hold me up anymore.
Corvus crouches in front of me, tablet forgotten. "The rejection sickness you're experiencing is exponentially worse because you're not rejecting one bond. You're rejecting three simultaneous fated mate bonds. Your body is trying to sever connections that genetically shouldn't be severable."
"Good." My voice cracks. "Let it kill me."
"Vespera—"
"You don't get it." I look up at him, let him see the rage and fear and exhaustion. "This proves it wasn't even a choice. You didn't want me. Your DNA did. I'm not a person to you—I'm a genetic match."
Something flickers across his face. Almost like hurt.
"That's not true."
"Isn't it? Ninety-nine point nine seven percent." I laugh, and it sounds unhinged. "Congratulations. Science says you have no choice but to want me. Must be nice having biology take all the responsibility."
He reaches for me. I flinch back.
"Don't touch me."
He withdraws. Stands. Returns to his desk, and I watch him retreat into clinical detachment like armor.
