THIRTY-SEVEN #3
My hands suddenly feel very cold, but not because I’m scared.
It’s because something inside me has grown very still and very far away.
I spent six years outside these walls hiding from men who considered my body just another resource.
And now I’m inside a clean version of the same fucking greed and hunger, only this one has a council and committees.
That’s just great. Love that for me. Really love that for civilization.
Fletcher’s voice is low next to me as he says, “Kota.”
I look over at him, and he almost says something to me. I see the order form behind his teeth.
Don’t run.
Stay close.
Let me handle it.
All the usual smaller cages decorated with ribbons and good intentions.
But then he stops, swallows it, and tries again. “You’ve got choices. We can walk out of this room. We can go check on Maine. We can find the others. Or we can stay and make Hale explain exactly how many predators he’s letting dress up as policy.”
My chest aches. Badly. Not because of Davis, but because Fletcher remembered. Because he took the outline of a command and snapped it before handing it to me. Options, not orders.
I look at Hale, and then Mercer, then Valeria. Every one of them looks tired to different degrees. And honestly, I’m fucking tired too. But tired has never once stopped me from being someone’s biggest problem.
“I want Maine guarded,” I decide.
Hale starts, “He already—”
I slash my eyes to him and he stops. That’s cute.
“I want someone we trust outside his room,” I clarify. “Not compound trust. My trust.”
Fletcher nods once. “Done.”
“I want Kaito woken up if Davis gets within twenty feet of medical,” I continue.
“He’ll hate that,” Fletcher notes.
“Yeah? Well, he can file a complaint with my ass and kiss it.”
Fletcher’s mouth twitches. “Fair.”
“I want Ewan told not to make jokes at Davis unless he’s ready to start ducking.”
“I’ll tell him to stretch first.”
“And Xeon…” My throat tightens weirdly. “Xeon needs to know.”
Fletcher’s gaze holds mine, because he knows what I’m not saying.
Xeon, who touched me without a single punch of pity.
Xeon, who stayed.
Xeon, who needs to know the compound has already started looking at me like I’m a door with a lock they have a right to pick.
“I’ll find him,” Fletcher promises, and I nod.
Then I pull my bandana back up, the fabric covering my mouth. Not because Davis scared me back into hiding, but because teeth are a lot more useful when people forget they’re even there.
Hale watches the movement but his face doesn’t give anything away.
Valeria opens the door wider and offers, “I’ll escort you.”
“No,” I say, and her eyebrows lift. I look at Fletcher. The choice is mine, and that matters more than I could ever truly verbalize. “He can.”
Fletcher doesn’t smile, doesn’t puff up like some proud Alpha. He simply steps toward the hall and waits for me to move first.
I do.
The hallway outside feels narrower than it was before. Brighter. Cleaner. A lot more watched than the room we just left. Every camera seems to have eyes now, every closed door is a mouth with secrets tucked behind teeth.
Fletcher walks next to me, close enough that his cedar and leather scent splits through the compound’s bleach and recycled air. For once, I don’t step away from it.
We make it two turns before he finally says, “You handled him.”
“Well, I didn’t stab him,” I mutter.
“I guess that’s one interpretation.”
“What can I say? I’m growing as a person.”
“That’s actually terrifying for the rest of us,” he says, almost so seriously that I huff something akin to a laugh. Not quite, but it’s close enough.
Then the sound dies and I quietly say, “He meant it, you know.”
Fletcher’s expression turns hard. “Yeah.”
“That wasn’t just a show to scare me.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“He thinks someone should be allowed to claim me just because I make people uncomfortable.”
Fletcher stops walking, so I do, too. For a second, he looks too big for the hallway. Too angry for his skin. Fletcher Rhodes with violence behind his eyes and both hands opened because he’s learned that closed fists don’t always mean protection.
“He’s wrong,” he says.
It’s simple. There’s no decoration, no fancy speech, and that makes my throat ache.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t apologize.
It takes me a moment to finally, quietly, say, “I know.”
His gaze drops to my covered mouth, then returns to my eyes.
“You want me near, I’m near,” he declares. “You want space, I’ll give it to you. You want to burn this whole policy shit to the ground, then I’ll hand you the matches and point out which weaknesses to hit.”
There’s that warmth again, dangerous and rude and very much Fletcher-shaped.
“What if I want all three?” I ask carefully.
His eyes soften by a fraction. “Then we’ll start at the nearest point and keep the matches on hand.”
Something inside me loosens. Not quite enough to make me feel safe, but it’s enough that I can keep walking.
When we turn the final corner toward medical, Davis is already there, waiting at the far end of the hall.
Not close, and not doing anything that could be considered a threat if someone from HR carrying a fancy clipboard asked.
He stands under a flickering light with one shoulder leaning against the wall, his two shadows gone for now.
His eyes find me immediately.
Then Fletcher.
Then me again.
He smiles, this creepy little smile. A private smile. Like we’re sharing a secret.
My stomach churns, growing cold enough that it aches, and Fletcher inhales beside me. Controlled, but only barely.
Davis lifts one hand, but not in a wave. It’s a promise. Then he taps two fingers against the side of his throat, right where a claiming bite would sit.
My body turns to stone.
Every sound in the hallway drains away.
Davis’s smile widens just enough for me to understand. He doesn’t only think I can be claimed. He thinks I should be.
And worse, he thinks the compound might actually let him prove it.