Page 26

"Yes." Vex moves to a section of cave wall that looks identical to every other section. But when he presses a specific sequence of stone protrusions, a hidden panel slides away. The cache behind it makes my breath catch—wicked blades designed for his clawed hands, projectile launchers that look alien and deadly, items I can't even identify but that radiate menace. "We need to prepare."

We.

The word hits me like a physical blow. Not "I need to defend my territory" or "you need to hide in the depths."Weneed to prepare. Like we're partners instead of captor and captive. Like my survival matters beyond simple possession.

Something shifts inside my chest. A reluctant acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, our interests align against the bigger threat. The devil I know versus the clinical horror of breeding facilities where dozens of alphas would use me until I broke completely.

Survival has always trumped pride. It's what kept me alive during the Conquest, what helped me hide my omega status for eight years. It's what will keep me breathing now.

"What's your plan?" I ask, the words scraping my throat raw.

They feel like betrayal. To my old self, to the resistance fighter I used to be, to every human who's suffered under Prime rule. But that woman is gone, shattered the moment Vex's knot locked inside me. This new version of me calculates odds with cold precision, weighs options without the luxury of moral absolutes.

Vex's vertical pupils narrow to thin slits—surprise, maybe? He studies me for a long moment, and I feel exposed under that alien gaze. Like he's seeing something in me I'm not ready to acknowledge. But he doesn't comment on my shift in attitude. Instead, he moves to retrieve a map from his carefully organized collection.

The territory chart is drawn on cured hide, the boundaries marked with the same intricate pattern that scars my collarbone. Every line is rendered with artistic precision, showing intimate knowledge of terrain that goes far beyond simple dominance claims.

"Help me clear the table," he says, nodding toward the flat stone surface where we've shared meals during moments of forced domesticity.

We work in careful silence, our movements creating a strange dance of avoidance. Our hands don't quite touch as we move aside carved wooden bowls and stone cups, but I feel the heat radiating from his massive frame. The deliberate distance we both maintain creates its own kind of tension—awareness of what we're both avoiding, of the claim marks on my throat that pulse with each heartbeat.

He spreads the map across stone with reverent care, weighing corners with smooth river rocks. The detail surprisesme every time I look at it. Every mountain pass, water source, sheltered valley rendered with the precision of someone who's walked every inch of this territory. This isn't the crude lair of a mindless beast. This is the carefully maintained home of a strategist, a territorial alpha who thinks in long-term survival rather than immediate gratification.

"Felines will approach from here." His claw traces the eastern pass with surgical precision. The black talon draws invisible lines across the hide, and I find myself studying the elegant curve of his fingers. "Standard enforcement protocol uses three-point entry strategy when territorial dispute involves claimed assets."

Assets.The clinical term should sting like acid, but I'm past such small insults. In this post-Conquest world, we're all property of some kind. The only question is what type of property we become and how much protection that status provides.

"Three potential routes," he continues, indicating different paths with movements that speak to aerial perspective I could never achieve. "Eastern ridge offers most direct access but exposes ground forces to aerial attack." His wings shift slightly behind him, emphasizing the advantage his flight capability provides. "Northern passage provides better cover but requires navigating terrain unfamiliar to Feline scouts. Southern valley would allow larger force deployment but extends supply lines beyond sustainable limits."

I study the routes with the analytical detachment my medical training provides. Eastern approach means high visibility, maximum trauma potential from exposed positions under aerial assault. Northern passage creates hypothermia risks, altitude sickness, reduced mobility in unfamiliar terrain. Southern valley increases ambush potential, severe injuries requiring immediate intervention I'm not equipped to provide.

"We need more supplies," I say, gesturing at our pathetic collection of basic medical equipment. "This won't handle anything beyond minor cuts and bruises. No blood coagulant, no broad-spectrum antibiotics, no real pain management beyond willow bark tea."

The assessment comes automatically, professional training overriding personal animosity. Whatever else has happened between us, whatever I've become in this mountain prison, I'm still a nurse at my core. Still someone who preserves life instead of ending it, who treats injuries rather than inflicting them.

Vex nods like he expected this response. "There's a crashed medical transport in the western valley. Council supply route disrupted by resistance activity approximately three months ago. Salvage teams retrieved high-value electronics and weapons, but left medical supplies as low priority recovery."

"How do you know what's still there?" I ask, skepticism creeping into my voice despite our temporary alliance.

"I don't," he admits with refreshing candor. "But mountain scavengers avoid chemical scents that indicate pharmaceuticals or medical compounds. Supplies typically remain untouched even when other salvage disappears to local wildlife or weather exposure."

His knowledge of this territory's ecosystem runs deeper than simple dominance claims. He understands these mountains—their weather patterns, their native wildlife, their seasonal changes—in ways that explain how he's maintained independence while the Council systematically maps and claims everything else in their expanding empire.

"We should fly there tomorrow," he suggests, the words hitting me like ice water in my veins.

Leaving the den means potential escape opportunity—exposure to open terrain, possible encounters with others who might intervene, distance from the blood bond's strongestinfluence near its source. My heart hammers against my ribs at the possibility of freedom, of seeing sky that isn't framed by cave walls.

But it also means exposure to dangers I can't control. No suppressants to mask my omega status, no weapons to defend myself against hostile encounters, claiming marks that would identify me to any Prime we encountered as Vex's territory. And the blood bond symptoms that would inevitably kick in if separation extended beyond certain parameters—nausea, disorientation, potentially debilitating weakness that would leave me helpless in hostile territory.

Most concerning, my scent would broadcast my claimed status to any alpha we met. Without Vex's immediate protection, I could become disputed property, potentially transferred to breeding facilities through Council jurisdiction claims.

Strategic cooperation with my captor offers demonstrably better survival odds than stumbling blind through territory controlled by unknown alphas with unknown intentions.

The acknowledgment tastes like bile in my throat. But pragmatism demands I swallow it along with what remains of my pride.

"When do we leave?" I ask, making my decision based on calculated risk assessment rather than emotional preference.

"First light tomorrow." His pupils contract slightly, reading something in my expression I'm not sure I want him to see. "Western valley receives morning shadows until midday. Better visibility for identifying salvage locations without exposing our presence to rival patrols conducting their own territory sweeps."