I’m inside his unit before the guards can even get a clear shot. Asa is shivering so hard I can hear his teeth clicking together, but when he sees me, his eyes clear for a split second. I drop to my knees and pull him into my arms, the contact hitting like a lightning strike. The fever in his skin is terrifying.
"Jorak," he whispers, his voice a ghost of itself. He buries his face in my neck, his fingers clutching at my shirt with a strength that tells me exactly how close to the edge he was. "You... you broke the glass."
"I'm breaking everything," I mutter against his hair. I wrap my arms around him, shielding him with my body as the Black Current forms a shimmering, entropic veil around us. "I've got you. I've got you, Asa."
The relief is a physical blow. Asa’s breathing begins to slow, the frantic rhythm of his heart settling into the deep, steady beat of my own. I can feel him anchoring me, the chaotic power in my veins turning steady.
"See?" Mercer’s voice comes over the emergency speakers. "Look at the vitals, Rue. The stabilization is instantaneous. The dependency is absolute. He is the only thing that keeps you from becoming a natural disaster, Jorak. This only proves that you can never be allowed to leave the facility’s oversight."
I look up at the gallery, my vision swimming with dark spots of rage. I can see him looking down at us, at Asa trembling in my arms, and he’s smiling.
"He isn't my stabilizer," I snarl, my voice echoing in the ruined chamber. "He’s my mate. And if you ever touch him again, if you ever put him in a cage to see how long it takes for him to break, you’ll regret it."
I pull Asa closer, my nose brushing against the junction of his neck and shoulder. I need his scent. I need the pear and vanilla to wash away the smell of the lab. I inhale deeply, seeking the familiar comfort of him, but then I stop. My whole body goes rigid, the power in my veins stilling in a way I’ve never felt before.
Under the scent of the fever, under the sharp tang of his distress slick and the lingering traces of his heat, there is something else. It’s faint, a soft, sweet change in the chemistry of his skin that I shouldn't be able to detect.
I don't say it. I can't. Not here, with Mercer watching like a vulture and the guards still aiming their rifles at my head. I just tuck Asa’s head under my chin and squeeze my eyes shut.
"Step away from the asset, Thorn," a guard shouts from the doorway, his voice cracking with nerves. "Jorak, remember who you belong to. You are state property. Don't make this worse than it already is."
I don't move. I just wrap myself tighter around Asa.
Asa
I can still feel the phantom ache of the distance test, a cold, hollow vibration that’s settled in my bones where they dragged Jorak to the other side of the facility. I’m pressed against Jorak now, my face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in the heavy, grounding scent of black cedar and whiskey. My hands are fisted in his tactical vest, knuckles white. Every time he shifts, the Black Current humming beneath his skin sends a ripple of warmth through me.
"Sit," Mercer says.
He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to. He’s standing on the other side of the table, a stack of heavy, cream-colored bond paper in his hand.
Jorak doesn't move. He stands behind me like a wall of living stone, his hand resting heavy and warm on the small of my back. I can feel the low, dangerous thrum of his power, a warning meant for the man across the table.
"We don't have much time for a standoff, Asa," Mercer continues, sliding the papers across the table. They make a dry, rasping sound against the metal. "The Redbrook network is fracturing. Sector Nine has reported three major flare-events in the last hour alone. Jorak is too unstable to deploy without a permanent bridge, and as we just demonstrated, separation is no longer a viable option for either of you. Your Anchor response isn't just a curiosity anymore; it’s a matter of public safety."
I pull away from Jorak’s heat just enough to look at the documents. The words Official Pairing Agreement are embossed at the top in cold, serifed print. It’s a death warrant disguised as a contract. I feel the familiar, sharp bite of sarcasm rising in my throat, my favorite shield when I feel the world closing in.
"Public safety," I rasp. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel. "Is that what we're calling it now? I thought the distance test was more of an 'aggressive involuntary biological study.'"
Mercer’s expression doesn't flicker. "The distance test was a necessity to establish the parameters of your dependency. We now know that beyond six hundred meters, your autonomic systems begin to fail. Within ninety minutes, you are non-functional. Within three hours, the neural feedback would likely be fatal. These documents simply formalize the reality your bodies have already created."
He taps a fountain pen against the table. The click-click-click is rhythmic, hypnotic, and makes me want to scream. "Sign them, and we can move you back to a more comfortable environment. You’ll be classified as a Priority Asset. You’ll have everything you need."
"Priority Asset," I repeat, my mouth twisting. "Right. Because I’ve always dreamed of being a very important piece of government equipment."
I reach for the papers. My fingers are still trembling, the fine motor control not quite back yet, but I force them to behave. I don't just sign. I read. Every line, every sub-clause, every footnoted exception.
I can hear the faint, high-pitched whine of the facility’s suppression field and the slow, steady rhythm of Jorak’s breathing behind me. He isn't looking at the papers. He’s looking at Mercer’s throat. He’s waiting for a signal, for a reason to let the Black Current tear through the air. I reach back blindly, catching his other hand with mine, threading our fingers together. I need him still while I navigate the trap.
"This clause," I say, pointing to a paragraph on page three. "The one that says I'm required to remain on-site for 'continuous monitoring of stabilization effects.' Cross it out."
Mercer narrows his eyes. "That is for your own protection, Asa. If a flare hits while you're off-site—"
"If a flare hits, you have Jorak’s direct line," I interrupt, picking up the pen. I don't wait for his permission. I draw a thick, black line through the text. "We go home. To my condo. Not a facility cell, not a 'monitored suite.' Home. If you need us, you call. But we sleep in our own bed."
I turn the page, my mind racing through the mathematical implications of every word. I’m remapping the cage, inch by inch, trying to find enough space for us to breathe.
"And this. 'The Guide shall submit to daily physiological and energetic examinations.' No. Absolutely not. No medical exams, no blood draws, and no 'compatibility testing' without my explicit, written consent for each individual instance. And Jorak has to be present for all of them."
