"You’re being difficult for the sake of it," Mercer says, his voice thinning. "The data is necessary to—"
"The data is mine," I snap, looking up at him. The exhaustion is there, but the fury is winning. "My body, my data. You wantme functional? You want Jorak stable? Then you stop treating us like petri dishes. I’m an Anchor, Mercer. You said it yourself. I’m the only reason your S-Class weapon hasn't leveled half the city. That gives me leverage. I suggest you start acting like you understand that."
Jorak leans down, his chin brushing my shoulder, his voice a low vibration that I feel more than hear. "Listen to him, Holt. He’s much better at this than I am. And he’s much less likely to lose his temper."
Mercer looks at Jorak, then back at me. He needs the paperwork. He needs the legal shield of a signed agreement to justify the resources he’s pouring into us, especially with the Unbound stirring up trouble in the districts.
"Fine," Mercer says stiffly. "What else?"
"A lot else," I say, flipping to the next page. "No forced heat or rut observations. Ever. If we're in a cycle, the facility staff stays behind a locked door unless I ask for assistance. My nest is private. No cameras, no sensors, no access for anyone but Jorak."
I scrawl the words into the margin, my handwriting sharp and jagged.
"Mira Solenne remains my primary advocate and research partner. She gets full clearance to see the raw data from any tests I do agree to. And nobody, I mean nobody, touches me without Jorak or an advocate present. Not for a blood pressure check, not to deliver a meal. You don't get to lay a hand on me unless I say so."
I finish the list, adding a final clause about unrestricted movement within the city limits, provided we stay within the required stabilization radius. I’m shaking by the time I reach the signature line, a combination of the distance sickness aftermath and the pure, terrifying adrenaline of staring down the most powerful man in Redbrook.
Mercer takes the documents back, his eyes scanning the ink-blacked lines and the messy, handwritten additions. He looks like he’s just been forced to swallow a lemon. "This is highly irregular, Professor Renwick. It compromises our ability to—"
"It's the only way I sign," I say, leaning back into Jorak’s chest. The room is starting to tilt, the edges of my vision fraying into gray static. "Take it or leave it. But if you leave it, I’m going to walk out that door, and when Jorak follows me, I won't stop him from breaking whatever he needs to break to get us to the street."
The silence stretches. Mercer looks at the pen in his hand, then at the man standing behind me. Jorak doesn't have to say a word; the way he’s watching Mercer’s pulse point says enough.
"Agreed," Mercer says, his voice tight. He signs the bottom of the modified pages with a quick, aggressive flourish. "For now. But remember, Asa, Redbrook is falling apart. If your terms interfere with the stabilization of this city, I will revoke them under emergency authority without a second thought."
"I’d expect nothing less," I whisper.
I take the pen and sign my name.
Asa Renwick.
The moment the ink is dry, Jorak’s hand moves from my back to the nape of my neck. His palm is broad, calloused, and searingly hot. He squeezes gently, a grounding pressure that pulls me back from the brink of a collapse I’ve been fighting for hours.
"Let's go," Jorak says.
I stand up. My knees feel like they’re made of water, and for a terrifying second, I think I’m going to go down. I feel Jorak’s arm slide around my waist, his strength supporting half my weight before I can even stumble. I want to let him carry me. I want to close my eyes and let the world vanish until I’m safe in my own nest, wrapped in his scent and the silence of my apartment.
But Mercer is still watching. His eyes are cold, analytical, already searching for the next weakness to exploit.
I straighten my spine, forcing my legs to lock. I shove my hands into the pockets of my ruined slacks so nobody can see them shaking. I look Mercer right in the eye, and for a fleeting second, I see the flicker of something that looks almost like respect. Or maybe it’s just recalculation.
"Don't call us," I say, the words a thin, sharp blade of defiance. "We'll be at my place. Trying to remember what it's like to be people instead of assets."
Asa
The air in my apartment tastes wrong. It isn't the smell of old coffee or the faint scent of pear and vanilla that usually lingers in the drapes. It’s the absence of privacy. Every shadow in the corner of the living room looks like a camera lens, and the silence of the hallway feels like a held breath.
Jorak moves with a twitchy grace, his boots silent on the hardwood as he checks the locks on the windows. He doesn't turn on the lights. He uses the glow from the streetlamps filtering through the blinds, his silhouette a jagged cut of darkness against the glass. He checks the closet, the space behind the bathroom door, and the seal on the balcony with a meticulous, bone-deep paranoia that makes my skin prickle.
"It's empty, Jorak," I whisper, leaning against the kitchen counter. My legs feel like they’re made of damp cardboard. The distance test has left a hollow ache in my marrow. "They're gone. They got what they wanted."
He doesn't answer until he’s circled back to me, stepping into my space, his heat radiating off him in waves that smell of cedar and the sharp, metallic tang of the Black Current. He reaches out, his hands trembling with a restrained violence as they frame my face. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, his touch so light it’s almost a question.
"They touched you," he rasps. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide until the gold is just a thin, flickering ring. "I can still smell their chemicals on your skin. That clinical, bitter rot."
He moves his hands down, tracing the line of my throat, his fingers lingering over the pulse point as if he’s counting the beats to make sure I’m still alive. Then his palms slide down my chest, over my ribs, stopping at my waist. He doesn't pull me in. He just holds me there, his touch moving to my wrists, checking the faint reddening where the suppression cuffs sat.
"I'm fine," I say, though the lie feels heavy in my mouth. "I'm intact. They didn't break anything, Jorak. They just... looked."
