Page 42 of Conall (The Sunburst Pack #3)

T HE NEURAL INTERFACE HUMMED against Nadine’s skull like an angry wasp, its artificial whispers trying to drown thought with manufactured compliance.

She sat motionless in the reinforced chair, silver-laced restraints burning her wrists, watching Gregory pace the sterile laboratory with a satisfied air.

Watching him orchestrate the systematic betrayal of everything she’d believed about their relationship while she fought against technology designed to turn her into the perfect weapon against her own mate.

The beauty of the system, Gregory said to the technicians he’d assembled to witness her descent into a mindless automaton, is that she won’t remember ever having fought against this.

Nor will she recall choosing to cooperate.

In fact, once I’m done with her, she won’t remember being here at all.

The implant, controlled by the interface and combined with our newly developed neural suppression chemicals, will make rebellion literally unthinkable.

Her voice remained locked behind those neural suppression protocols, but Nadine’s mind burned with crystalline fury despite the artificial calm being forced on her nervous system.

Through the laboratory’s reinforced windows, she could see the desert compound Gregory had built—a sprawling facility masquerading as a research station but functioning as a command center for the final phase.

The Omicron Protocol wasn’t just about activating sleeper assets. It was about turning the strongest wolves against their packs—including his own daughter.

The subject is showing remarkable resistance to behavioral modification, Dr. Vera Petrov reported from her control console, professional frustration edging her voice. Neural pathway integration is proceeding slower than projected.

Gregory paused, focusing on Nadine with calculating intensity. She always was stubborn. Even as a child, Nadine required creative motivation to accept necessary truths.

The casual admission that their entire relationship had been built on manipulation should have broken something inside her. Instead, it crystallized her resolve into something harder than diamond.

He never loved me. Never saw me as anything more than a tool to be shaped .

The interface pushed back against her growing rage, flooding her system with artificial calm that made her limbs feel heavy. But beneath the technological suppression, her wolf paced with a vicious intent no human science could fully contain.

Perhaps we should increase the chemical dosage, Dr. Petrov suggested even as she adjusted settings on the interface. The subject’s resistance ability seems unusually strong.

No, Gregory said sharply. Too much chemical suppression will interfere with the mate bond connection we need to exploit. The beauty of this operation is that she’ll eliminate her mate willingly, believing she’s protecting him.

They want me to kill him . The thought cut through the interface’s suppression, through the chemicals flooding her system. They want me to destroy the only good thing I’ve found .

The psychological profile indicates maximum emotional impact, another operative added, consulting stolen intelligence about pack dynamics. Mate-on-mate violence will create trauma patterns lasting generations.

Anger swirled through her.

The plan was elegant in its cruelty. The interface would gradually reshape her perceptions, making her believe Conall was the real traitor, that the evidence pointed to him rather than Quinton.

In her altered state, she’d return to Sunburst territory, convinced her mate was working for Chimera—that eliminating him was the only way to protect the pack.

But even as fury built beneath artificial calm, another part of her mind worked with clinical precision, cataloging details Gregory couldn’t know she was processing. Guard rotations. Security protocols. The facility’s layout based on glimpses through doorways.

Years of training with the man who’d shaped her into a weapon were about to work against him.

Bonded pairs create unique vulnerabilities, Gregory continued, settling into a chair with casual confidence. The mate bond makes them predictable, willing to sacrifice strategic thinking for emotional satisfaction. Their greatest weakness.

No , Nadine thought. It’s their greatest strength. And you never understood the difference .

The neural suppression protocols were sophisticated, designed to override conscious resistance through biochemical manipulation.

But they’d been calibrated for normal wolf physiology, not for someone who’d spent years with Gregory.

The fascinating aspect, Dr. Petrov said, reviewing interface readouts, is how the technology can transform love into hatred while preserving emotional intensity. She’ll feel the same passion—but directed toward destruction rather than protection.

Poetic justice, Gregory agreed. She chose that pack over family loyalty. Now she’ll destroy it with the same misguided conviction.

He’s wrong about the mate bond. Wrong about what it really means .

Love wasn’t a weakness or vulnerability to be exploited. It was the kind of strength that came from choosing to trust, from deciding someone else’s well-being mattered as much as your own survival.

It was the difference between existing and living.

And it also fed the growing fire the interface couldn’t quite contain.

The interface pushed harder as her resistance grew, flooding her system with chemicals designed to induce compliance.

But Nadine had been fighting artificial influences since childhood—first Gregory’s psychological manipulation, then her own fear of attachment, finally the mate bond itself when she’d been too afraid to accept what it offered.

She’d learned to function despite interference with her natural responses. Had learned to find her true self beneath layers of externally imposed expectations.

The neural technology was just another form of coercion to overcome.

The subject’s neural activity is spiking, Dr. Petrov reported with growing alarm. Brain wave patterns indicate she’s fighting the behavioral modifications.

Impossible, Gregory said, but uncertainty colored his voice. The interface technology is specifically designed to override conscious resistance.

Not for someone who’s been resisting external domination her entire life, Nadine said.

Every head in the room turned toward her, shock evident on faces that had assumed her complete helplessness. The interface shrieked with electronic feedback as she forced thoughts past its suppression protocols, raw will overcoming technological sophistication through bloody-minded determination.

That’s impossible, Dr. Petrov said, fingers flying across control surfaces as she tried to reassert the interface’s dominance. Neural pathways should be completely suppressed—

Should be, Nadine agreed, testing the silver restraints.

The metal burned against her skin, but pain had always been a teacher rather than an enemy.

But you calibrated this system for someone who’d never learned to resist psychological manipulation.

Someone who’d never spent years fighting artificial influences.

Teaching her to resist external influences had made her immune to the very technology Gregory had planned to use against her.

You taught me too well, Father, she continued, putting venom into the last word.

All those years of training me to compartmentalize pain, to function despite psychological pressure, to maintain my core identity when everything else was stripped away—you created exactly the kind of person who could resist your neural interface.

The restraints were silver-laced but not pure silver, designed more for pain than absolute security. Now, as the interface’s hold faltered, she felt the first restraint begin to give way.

Increase suppression to maximum, Gregory ordered, his disciplined demeanor cracking. Whatever it takes to regain power over her.

Sir, those levels could cause permanent neurological damage—

Do it!

Dr. Petrov’s hands hesitated over the controls, whatever professional ethics she might have left warring with operational necessity. That moment of hesitation gave Nadine the opening she needed.

The first restraint snapped.

Years of combat training, suppressed by the interface but not eliminated, exploded back into consciousness like a dam bursting.

Her free hand moved with predatory precision, striking the release mechanism for the remaining restraints with exactly the right force to trigger their emergency protocols.

Security! Gregory shouted, but Nadine was already in motion.

The laboratory erupted into chaos as she flowed from the chair like liquid destruction, no longer fighting the interface but working around it, using the technological suppression as camouflage for movements the operatives couldn’t predict.

Dr. Petrov reached for her sidearm but found herself facing empty space as Nadine pivoted around her grasping hand, the stolen weapon now pressed against the back of the doctor’s skull.

Everyone stays very still, Nadine said. Or we find out if neural interface specialists are as expendable as they pretend other people are.

The laboratory froze—six operatives, two technicians, and Gregory himself, all held in check by one woman with a stolen pistol and nothing left to lose.

You won’t shoot her, Gregory said with calculated confidence. You’re not a killer, Nadine. Not really. I made sure of that.

You’re right, she agreed, adjusting her grip on Dr. Petrov to keep the woman between herself and the room’s other occupants. I’m not a killer. I’m something more dangerous—I’m a protector. And right now, I’m protecting everyone you plan to hurt.

The interface whined with electronic feedback as, with each passing second, more of her natural responses came back online—enhanced senses, predatory reflexes, situational awareness.

The facility’s security systems, she continued, noting camera positions with renewed clarity. How many operatives total? How many between me and the exit?

Even if you could fight your way out, Gregory said, where would you go? Back to that pack that still doesn’t fully trust you? Back to a mate who chose his twin over you when forced to make a choice?

The psychological attack hit its target, whispering in the back of Nadine’s mind that maybe he was right. Maybe Conall really had chosen Quinton when presented with evidence of betrayal. Maybe the mate bond hadn’t been strong enough to overcome their shared history.

Stop .

The command came from someplace deeper than conscious thought, deeper than the interface could reach.

Remember what you learned. Remember what the mate bond really means .

The connection hadn’t been about dependency or consuming passion that destroyed rational thought. It had been about choice—the conscious decision to make someone else’s well-being as important as your own survival.

Conall had made that choice. Had demonstrated it every time he’d supported her through devastating revelations about Gregory’s nature, every time he’d chosen partnership over pack politics, every time he’d offered protection without demanding submission.

The doubt cracked and fell away, taking with it the last of the interface’s hold on her decision-making processes.

You’re wrong about the mate bond, she said, adjusting position to keep Dr. Petrov between herself and the growing number of weapons being drawn. Wrong about what makes people strong. Wrong about what I’m willing to do to protect the people I choose to love.

Love is weakness, Gregory replied with absolute conviction. It makes you predictable. Vulnerable. It’s why your mate will choose familiar loyalty over uncertain connection when pressure becomes too great.

Maybe, Nadine agreed, recognizing the truth in his assessment while rejecting its assumptions. But even if he does, even if the mate bond isn’t enough to overcome a twin bond—it was still worth choosing. Still worth fighting for.

Still worth dying for, apparently, one of the operatives said, raising his weapon despite Dr. Petrov’s position as human shield.

We’ll see, Nadine replied and smiled with the kind of anticipation that could have made a professional killer take a step back.

Then she moved.