Page 3 of Human Reform (Cyborg Planet Alpha #3)

THREE

ALORA

I kept my breathing even and my body motionless beneath the thin blanket as golden-violet light from Planet Alpha’s twin suns filtered through the window of my room in this medical facility.

The strange, otherworldly glow painted patterns across my eyelids, but I forced myself to remain still when I heard the keypad being punched outside my door.

Last night had been a mental hamster wheel of anxiety, guilt, and bewilderment. Hour after hour, I’d replayed Daxon’s words in my mind.

The code that turned us into mindless weapons. Made us kill ? —

His rage hadn’t seemed programmed or artificial. It had erupted from somewhere raw and wounded, a place I understood all too well. The same place had driven me to abandon my career and hide in the mountains.

I’d spent three years running from what I’d done at CyberEvolution. Now my sins had literally hunted me down and dragged me to another planet. Poetic justice had one hell of a sense of humor.

The lock disengaged with a soft click. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing deliberately deep and rhythmic. Whoever was at the door paused at the threshold, and I fought the urge to peek. My muscles coiled, ready to spring into action the moment an opportunity presented itself.

But my plan had one major flaw. I had no idea where I’d run to. This wasn’t Earth, with its familiar landmarks and escape routes. This was an alien jungle world with God-knew-what waiting outside the colony’s boundaries.

“I know you’re awake,” came a deep voice that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.

Daxon. Again. But he hadn’t entered the room.

I maintained my sleeping facade, waiting to see if he’d approach.

“Your cardiac rhythm changed thirty seconds ago,” he continued from the doorway. “And your breathing pattern has shifted from REM sleep to conscious control.” I heard the faintest trace of amusement in his tone. “Are you always this stubborn, Dr. Bridges?”

Caught in my deception, I opened one eye. “Are you always this invasive of privacy?”

He stood in the doorway, his massive frame nearly filling it. The morning light caught the angles of his face, highlighting those chiseled features that seemed too perfect to be real. His ice-blue eyes studied me with unsettling intensity.

“My apologies for last night,” he said, his voice controlled but with an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite identify. Not synthetic. Something human. Shame, perhaps.

I sat up, pulling the blanket with me despite being fully clothed. “For kidnapping me or for the tantrum?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Both.”

That simple admission caught me off guard. I’d expected defensiveness, not accountability.

“So why exactly am I monitoring my own heart rate?” I lifted my right wrist with the sleek band. “And how do I get this thing off?”

“You don’t.” He finally stepped into the room but maintained his distance. “And it’s more than a heart monitor. It tracks your location, biometrics, and serves as your colony identification.”

“I don’t want colony identification,” I replied, my frustration building. “I want to go home.”

Something flashed in his eyes—that same violet glow I’d glimpsed during his outburst last night. “Like I said yesterday, that’s not possible yet.”

I didn’t think twice. Three years of mountain survival had honed my instincts. When you see an opening, you take it. I launched myself from the bed in one fluid motion, my bare feet hitting the cool floor as I darted toward the door. Daxon was still inside. The door had to be unlocked.

I slammed into the unyielding metal with my full body weight. Pain shot through my shoulder as the door refused to budge—locked, not automatic like I’d stupidly assumed. The impact rattled my teeth and sent me bouncing backward, off-balance and vulnerable.

Strong hands caught me before I could fall.

Daxon had moved like lightning, wrapping his arms around me to stop my momentum.

The moment his skin touched mine, electricity sparked through my body—not metaphorical, but a physical jolt that radiated from each point of contact between us.

Like my cells suddenly remembered what they were designed for.

“Let go,” I gasped, but my voice betrayed me, emerging breathless instead of commanding.

He didn’t. If anything, his grip shifted, becoming less restraining and more… supportive. The heat from his chest seeped through the thin medical garment I wore.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said, his voice dropping to a timbre that made my stomach tighten. His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes—incongruous details that made him seem more human than machine.

“You already hurt me by dragging me here,” I countered, but my heart wasn’t in the accusation. It was too busy hammering for reasons I refused to examine.

His eyes—those impossible blue eyes with that haunting violet undertone—searched mine. “Not by choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” I whispered, suddenly aware of how perfectly I fit against him, and how his hands splayed against my back created anchors of warmth. How my treacherous body leaned into his touch even as my mind screamed to pull away.

What the hell was happening to me? This man—this cyborg—had participated in my abduction. He represented everything I’d spent three years hiding from. So why did my skin prickle with awareness? Why did my breath catch when his gaze dropped briefly to my lips?

“Not for me,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

His words held a resignation that struck a chord in me. I knew what it was to live without choices and to be caught in systems larger than myself. I’d escaped mine by running to the mountains. Where could he run?

“You could let me go,” I suggested, making no move to pull away, betrayed by my own body’s reaction to his proximity.

A ghost of something that might have been a smile touched his lips. “I’m trying to.”

But his arms remained around me, and I realized with startling clarity that neither of us was talking about his physical grip anymore.

His gaze dropped to my lips again, and for one crazy, electric moment, I thought he might actually kiss me. The most bewildering part? I might have actually wanted him to. My breath caught in my chest as the space between us seemed to charge with possibility.

Then a sharp stab of pain shot through my shoulder, breaking whatever spell had momentarily captured us both. I grimaced, unable to hide my discomfort as the adrenaline faded and reality rushed back.

Daxon immediately released me from his embrace, though his hands moved to my uninjured arm, steadying me with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his imposing frame.

“You’re hurt.” His brow furrowed, the concern in his voice genuine.

“Just my pride, mostly,” I muttered but couldn’t stop the wince when I tried to rotate my shoulder.

Without hesitation, Daxon guided me to sit on the edge of the bed. His movements were fluid and careful, as though I might break if handled too roughly. The contradiction between his evident strength and this unexpected tenderness left me momentarily speechless.

He tapped his wrist communicator. “Olivia, bring an ice pack to room twelve. Now.”

The woman who’d removed my restraints last night appeared within a minute, a blue gel pack in hand. She glanced between us with obvious curiosity.

“What happened?” she asked, handing the ice pack to Daxon.

“Dr. Bridges got… upset. Thought she could exit through the door.”

The understatement made me laugh unexpectedly. “I threw myself at it like an idiot.”

Olivia’s lips quirked in what might have been knowing sympathy. “The doors are reinforced titanium composite and always lock automatically. You’re lucky it’s just a bruise.”

“Duly noted for my next escape attempt,” I said dryly.

Something passed between Daxon and Olivia—a look that communicated far more than words. She nodded slightly and then stepped back toward the door.

“Call if you need anything else,” she said softly, pressing a very small button on her white coat to activate the door before leaving us alone again. Something I clearly missed her doing yesterday in my state of panic and confusion, which could’ve saved me from bruising my shoulder just now.

Daxon knelt in front of me, the ice pack in his large hands. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to my shoulder.

The formality of the request caught me by surprise. I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He placed the pack against my shoulder with such deliberate care that I found myself staring at his face. His dark brows were drawn together in concentration, and those piercing blue eyes focused entirely on the task of easing my pain.

“You’re not what I expected,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

His eyes flicked to mine, those hints of violet swimming in the blue. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Not… this.”

“This?”

I gestured weakly with my good arm. “This humanity. The war cyborgs I helped program weren’t?—”

“Weren’t capable of compassion,” he finished, his jaw tightening. “Or free will. Or any emotion beyond rage and tactical calculation.”

The guilt hit me like another door, harder this time, but aimed directly at my heart. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words feeling pathetically inadequate.

Daxon adjusted the ice pack, his fingertips brushing against my collarbone in a touch so light, it might have been accidental. But the way his pupils dilated told me it wasn’t.

“After the war,” he said, his voice low and controlled, “we found a way to reprogram ourselves. A neural programmer from the Eastern Front military provided the foundational code. Benjamin Reeves.”

The name struck a chord. “Benjamin Reeves?”

Daxon nodded. “He created a neural framework that allowed us to develop emotions and independent thought—a learning model that grows more complex over time.”

My throat tightened. Another programmer had succeeded where I’d failed. Had found the humanity to help the cyborgs when I’d only helped enslave them.

“He saw us as people,” Daxon continued. “Not weapons.”

The weight of my past pressed down on me. Three years in the mountains hadn’t been nearly long enough to outrun this particular demon. “I understand if you hate me,” I whispered.

“I don’t hate you.” His other hand that wasn’t holding the ice pack moved to cup my cheek, the warmth of his palm sending shock waves through my system. “You were just following orders in wartime.”

His touch was impossibly gentle, his thumb grazing over my cheekbone as if memorizing its contour. The tenderness in the gesture confused and thrilled me in equal measure.

“I don’t understand you at all,” I admitted, fighting the urge to lean into his hand.

“That makes two of us,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.