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."
"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 want me 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."