Page 28

GARGOYLE SCOUTS

Amelia's POV

The afternoon air tastes like an approaching storm when Vex leaves for his daily patrol.

My growing belly makes me tire easily these days, so I stay behind to organize our medical supplies.

There's something comforting about sorting bandages, checking dates on medications, and counting sutures—normal tasks in our anything-but-normal life.

Fourteen weeks pregnant now. My body changes in ways that only Vex seems to notice—my scent shifting like seasons, my temperature running warmer, the small roundness beneath clothes I've had to let out at the waist. But I feel it from the inside too—tiny flutters that might be the baby moving, constant hunger that makes me crave the strangest things, and the claiming marks on my throat tingling with new sensitivity that sends heat straight to my core whenever he's near.

I'm arranging antibiotics by type when the air in the den suddenly changes.

Vex lands at the entrance with such force that small rocks scatter across the floor like scattered dice.

One look at him sends my pulse racing—his massive wings stretched to their full fifteen-foot span in a display I haven't seen in weeks, scales dark as midnight with only hints of purple catching the light.

Every inch of his powerful body radiates fury barely leashed.

"Gargoyles on the southern boundary," he announces, his voice deeper than usual, vibrating with tension that makes my bones ache. "Scout team with Council insignia. This isn't a regular border patrol."

My hand moves to my belly without thinking, a protective gesture that's become as natural as breathing. "Council enforcement?" I ask, though my gut already knows it's worse.

"Specialist hunters. Binding team." His tail lashes behind him, the only outlet for the rage coiled in his muscles. "Units designed specifically for taking down Chimerics."

The meaning hits me like a physical blow. Binding teams aren't just enforcers—they're specialized squads with technology designed to permanently ground flying Primes. They don't capture; they cripple.

My medical knowledge supplies horrifying details I wish I could forget—severed wing tendons that never heal properly, drugs that sever the neural pathways between brain and wings, chemicals that make flight muscles brittle as old paper.

I've treated the aftermath at the settlement clinic—Primes reduced to earth-bound shadows, their wings dead weight dragging behind them like broken dreams.

"How many?" I manage, my mouth dry as dust at the thought of Vex's powerful wings—wings that can slice through hurricane winds—turned into useless appendages.

"Five. Two binders, three support. All wearing Council Elite insignia," he explains, pacing deeper into the den with movements too controlled to hide his agitation. "This isn't about territory violations. This is a targeted recovery operation."

"Targeted?" I repeat, though a sick certainty is already crawling through my chest. "For what?"

"For you."

His direct stare makes denial impossible. The realization slams into me, sending nausea through my system that has nothing to do with pregnancy hormones. "They're coming specifically for me. Not because you broke some rule."

Vex nods, his wings finally folding against his back though they stay partially extended—ready for flight at a heartbeat's notice.

"Captain Kain escalated to the highest levels.

Breeding Authority override protocols are in effect.

Your medical skills combined with successful pregnancy makes you what they call a high-value acquisition target. "

The clinical language doesn't soften the brutal truth.

My pregnancy has transformed me from escaped property to premium breeding asset—an omega proven compatible with Chimeric genetics represents a scientific goldmine the Council would spare no expense to claim.

And if acquiring me means permanently grounding the territorial alpha who dared claim me against their orders?

That's just a bonus from their perspective.

"They'll drag me to a breeding facility," I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. "Run experiments. Study how the baby develops."

"Yeah." Vex doesn't waste energy on false comfort. "And use your medical knowledge to help process other claimed omegas. Double the return on their investment."

I sink onto a stone bench, my legs suddenly unreliable. The weight of the baby—still so small but already changing everything—feels heavier than it should. "How long do we have?"

"Two days. Maybe three if the weather turns nasty." He moves to his weapon cache, selecting blades with the focused attention of someone whose life depends on sharp edges. "The storm building over the northwest ridge might slow them down if it hits hard enough."

"But they'll come regardless."

"Yes."

That single word carries more dread than a thousand explanations. Council Elite forces with specialized binding technology, coming specifically for me, with authority that overrides even Vex's territorial claim and our documented pregnancy.

"What do we do?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. Eight years of fierce independence reduced to depending on a Prime's protection—exactly what I'd fought so hard to avoid.

Vex pauses in his weapon inspection, those yellow eyes finding mine with laser focus. "You need to be ready to move independently if we get separated during the confrontation."

The words hit like ice water in my veins.

Despite our complicated beginning, I've grown to depend on Vex's protection in ways I never expected.

The thought of facing Council forces alone—pregnant, exhausted, without his lethal strength between me and them—creates terror that threatens to drown rational thought.

"You think they'll split us up," I say. Not a question but acknowledgment of what we both know.

"Standard operating procedure." He tests another blade against his scales, the metal singing softly. "Binding teams always neutralize the alpha first, then extract the omega. Clean, efficient, no interference."

The strategy makes perfect tactical sense.

Incapacitate the territorial defender, then collect the valuable resource without complications.

I've seen the aftermath when treating omegas at our clinic—women traumatized not just by separation but by watching their alphas being systematically destroyed.

"I can't outrun Council forces," I say, medical reality crushing desperate hope. "Not pregnant. Not without your ability to fly."

"Not by running," Vex agrees, moving closer.

He crouches to bring his intimidating height down to my level, one massive hand carefully covering where my own still protects my belly.

"But through the routes we've mapped, the hidden supply caches, using the terrain they don't understand.

Everything I've taught you gives you advantages they won't expect. "

I see what he's doing—channeling my fear into actionable strategy, providing frameworks for resistance that don't rely solely on his protection. The approach makes sense, yet does nothing to calm the terror racing through my bloodstream.

"What about you?" I ask, the question surprising us both with its emotional weight. "Binding teams are designed specifically to... to permanently ground flying Primes."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise at my concern, maybe, or recognition of vulnerability he usually hides beneath territorial dominance. "I've evaded binding teams before. These mountains have secrets Council forces don't know."

"But not forever," I press, my medical training supplying unwanted knowledge of how binding teams operate—their patience, their specialized tracking technology, their willingness to wait days for the perfect moment to strike.

"No," he admits, honesty replacing empty reassurance. "Not forever."

The simple admission creates intimacy deeper than our physical claiming the night before. This shared vulnerability, this mutual recognition of mortal danger, transcends the captor-captive dynamic that defined our beginning.

"We need to prepare," I say, pushing aside terror in favor of action. "Emergency supplies. Escape routes. Communication methods if we're separated."

Vex's expression shifts to something like respect. "We start now." He rises to his full imposing height, wings adjusting behind him. "Pack the essential medical supplies first. Focus on pregnancy needs and emergency treatment. Light, portable, waterproof."

The clear instructions provide structure that helps steady my racing heart. This is something I can control—organizing medical gear, prioritizing treatments, preparing for emergencies. My hands move with practiced efficiency, medical training taking over where emotional courage falters.

As I work, Vex moves through the den with predatory purpose, selecting weapons, gathering survival tools, checking defenses with methodical attention. We function as a team despite the tension crackling between us, each focused on tasks that contribute to our mutual survival.

When I finish packing the medical essentials, Vex approaches with something clutched in his massive hand—a small leather pouch attached to a cord designed to hang around the neck.

"Emergency location markers," he explains, opening the pouch to reveal small red stones with distinctive purple veins threading through them. "Drop one every thousand steps if we're separated. I'll find you."

The simple statement—not "if I survive" or "if I can escape" but the absolute certainty of "I'll find you"—creates emotions I can't untangle. Fear at the possibility of separation, gratitude for his preparation, dependence I never wanted yet now can't imagine living without.

"The resistance fighter mentioned similar markers," I recall, taking the pouch with careful fingers. "Red stones marking safe paths to the southern valley."

"Same system." Vex secures the cord around my neck, the pouch settling between my breasts like a promise. "Mountain communication network. Resistance cells recognize these markers and will help you if Council forces manage to separate us."

This revelation—that his cooperation with the resistance extends to established emergency protocols specifically for my protection—shifts my understanding again. The alliance network he's built isn't just for territorial advantage but includes contingencies designed around my survival.

"You've been planning for this," I realize, pieces clicking together. "Since before the pregnancy. Since Captain Kain's first visit."

"Yes." He doesn't elaborate, but the single word reveals priorities more clearly than speeches could—my survival positioned as a goal equal to his own territorial defense.

As evening approaches, storm clouds gather over the northwestern peaks—dark, heavy formations promising serious weather. Vex watches them from the den entrance, his wings shifting with each gust that carries the scent of approaching rain.

"The storm will buy us preparation time," he observes, nostrils flaring as he reads the air. "Gargoyles hate flying in heavy rain. Water soaks into their wings, makes their stone bodies even heavier."

"How long?" I ask, joining him at the entrance. Close enough that his wing automatically adjusts to shelter me from the rising wind.

"Twelve hours minimum. Twenty-four if the storm stalls over the western ridge."

A full day's advantage if the weather cooperates.

Time to finalize preparations, strengthen defenses, ensure emergency plans are solid.

Yet even with this temporary reprieve, the reality remains unchanged—Council forces are coming for me specifically, with technology designed to permanently cripple the Prime who dared claim me against their orders.

As night falls and the first heavy raindrops strike the stone outside our den, I find myself moving closer to Vex, seeking the security his presence provides while it lasts. His arm curves around me without comment, his wing extending to create shelter from the increasing downpour.

"We'll survive this," I say, the words part statement, part desperate prayer.

Vex's response comes after a thoughtful pause, his voice carrying conviction despite the odds we face. "Yes. Together or apart, we survive. These mountains have weathered worse threats than binding teams."

As the storm intensifies around us, I find myself believing him despite every logical assessment suggesting otherwise.

Not because his protection guarantees safety, but because something fundamental has changed between us—the claiming marks on my neck no longer representing just ownership but connection that transcends how we began.

Whatever comes for us across the storm-lashed peaks, we'll face it not as captor and captive, but as something new the Council's rigid categories can't contain. Something dangerous precisely because it defies the established order of their carefully controlled world.

The baby flutters in my belly as thunder rolls across the mountains, and I press closer to Vex's warmth. Tomorrow may bring binding teams and separation and horrors I can't imagine. But tonight, sheltered by his wing while the storm rages outside, I allow myself to believe in survival.

In us.