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Aria flinches visibly, instinctive fear response her conscious mind clearly resents. Her scent spikes with momentary terror before she forces it back under control, though her elevated heart rate betrays continued unease.

"Your body knows the truth even when your mind refuses it," I observe, deliberately maintaining the inhuman posture. "Your instincts recognize the predator regardless of what fantasy you cling to."

Color rises in her cheeks—anger rather than embarrassment. "My body reacts to threat displays regardless of the source. That's survival instinct, not species judgment."

The response shows unexpected insight and adaptability. Despite her continued resistance, she's learning to navigate interaction with non-human alpha with remarkable speed. The realization triggers curiosity I haven't felt toward a human in decades. What else might she observe that others miss? What other adaptations will she develop to survive her new reality?

I return to more neutral posture, allowing tension to dissipate slightly. "Your duties begin tomorrow. Settlement escort will arrive at 0800. Lieutenant Thorne will provide necessary documentation and communication protocols."

She nods once, accepting the subject change while clearly recognizing the minor victory in our verbal skirmish. "Will that be all, Commander?"

"Fritz," I correct without premeditation, the directive emerging before strategic consideration. "When we are alone, you will use my name rather than rank. The claiming bite demands greater intimacy than military protocol requires."

Surprise flickers across her features before settling into calculating assessment. "Why would that matter if our arrangement is purely tactical? Surely military protocol better suits commanding officer and asset."

The question is deliberately provocative, designed to expose inconsistency in my approach. I find myself oddly appreciative of the strategy, though I maintain neutral expression.

"The claiming bond creates biological expectation of certain intimacies," I explain with clinical precision. "Adherence to formality places unnecessary strain on neurochemical processes. Medical staff recommends appropriate naming conventions to maintain optimal bond health."

The explanation is partially true, though I don't mention Dr. Merrin's additional observations about my own potential responses to the claiming bond. The medical report suggesting alpha instincts might override command training given sufficient bond stress remains classified information she has no need to know.

"As you wish... Fritz," she concedes, my name emerging with faint emphasis that transforms compliance into subtle challenge.

The sound of my name on her lips creates unexpected satisfaction despite the obvious reluctance behind it. The alpha in me responds to even this token submission with approval I cannot entirely suppress. My tail sways once behind me before I force it into deliberate stillness.

Too late—she's noticed the tell, eyes tracking the movement with evident curiosity. She's cataloging my responses, I realize with mingled irritation and respect. Learning to read signals most humans ignore, building knowledge base that might provide advantage in future interactions.

"You're studying me," I observe, curious to see her reaction to being caught.

Rather than denying it, she meets my gaze directly. "You study me constantly. Seems only fair to return the favor."

The unexpected honesty almost pulls smile from me, an expression so rarely used the muscles feel stiff at mere suggestion. I suppress it immediately, maintaining commander's detachment despite grudging appreciation for her tactical approach.

"Dismissed," I say, returning to my desk with deliberate focus on maps rather than her retreating form. "0800 tomorrow. Don't be late."

She exits without further comment, though the claiming bond transmits complicated mixture of emotions I choose not toexamine too closely. The door closes behind her, yet her scent lingers in the air, subtle reminder of her presence that persists despite physical absence.

I find myself wondering what she'll learn about me through careful observation, what conclusions she might draw beyond the careful control I maintain in public interactions. The thought should concern me—knowledge represents potential vulnerability—yet I find myself oddly intrigued by the possibility of being truly seen rather than merely feared.

Such thoughts serve no tactical purpose. I force my attention back to territorial maps and patrol schedules, the familiar rhythm of command responsibility. Aria Copenhagen represents asset to be utilized for settlement relations, nothing more. The curious mixture of defiance and intelligence she displays remains irrelevant beyond its impact on operational effectiveness.

Yet I find my gaze drawn repeatedly to the window overlooking Blackridge Settlement, my thoughts returning to the challenging discussions awaiting tomorrow's initial trade assessment. The prospect creates anticipation I haven't felt toward routine duty in longer than I care to examine.

My tail sways behind me, measuring thoughts I refuse to acknowledge even to myself.

CHAPTER 9

THE SETTLEMENT

Aria POV

The settlement gatesloom before me, weathered wood and stone that once represented home now appearing strangely diminished after weeks at Shadowthorn. I smooth the front of my uniform—feline-issued but deliberately unmarked to avoid antagonizing the settlement residents—and reach unconsciously for the claiming bite at my throat.

The mark throbs beneath my fingertips, a constant reminder of the chains I didn't choose but cannot break. The sensation intensifies as my anxiety rises, the bond transmitting emotional states Fritz can likely sense despite the physical distance between us. The thought makes me drop my hand immediately, though I know the gesture does nothing to diminish his awareness.

"Standard trade protocols," Lieutenant Thorne reminds me, his sleek black form keeping careful distance as we approach the gates. "The settlement council convenes at midday. Elder Nyssa has been informed of your new position."

I nod acknowledgment without bothering to reply. For all his attempts at professional courtesy, Thorne remains one ofthem—a predator playing at civilization, a conqueror pretending benevolence while maintaining iron control. The fact that he's not actively cruel merely makes the captivity more insidious.