Page 21 of Protector (Alpha Ties)
TWENTY-ONE
AX2
The deep ache in their bond tells him she can’t dispute the logical conclusions the officer presents, but no emotional turmoil shows on her pale face as she stares at the beta.
After a long pause, she says, “There is one thing this hypothesis of yours seems to leave out. What possible reason would my own father have to kidnap me?”
“We aren’t quite sure,” Welsh admits. He nods at AX2. “But given the nature of your work, we can suspect.”
“That makes no sense. General Thompson is the commanding officer responsible for the AX project. He wouldn’t need me?—”
“You are the AX project, Dr. Thompson,” Welsh interrupts her. “If someone were to hijack it, they would need you. But again, we don’t know the general’s motivations.”
She huffs through her nose. “That’s the real reason for this meeting? You want me to spy on my own father? You’re taking quite the risk, sharing all this and banking on me not warning him.”
He gives her a small, measured smile. “There is always an element of risk to intelligence-gathering, to be sure. However, given that General Thompson saw it fit to have you kidnapped, we surmised he doesn’t trust you would agree with whatever his plans are. If push comes to shove, you’re likely to break on the side of your country, not your father. Especially when that father had you taken from your home with force. He may not have intended the outcome to be as grim as it was, but he is the reason it happened.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. She is silent for another long moment before she says, “I don’t believe you.”
The grief welling in their bond tells a different story.
Officer Welsh nods. “I can’t force you to. So long as you keep in mind that this conversation is, of course, classified, you will do with this information as you see fit, Dr. Thompson.”
She is quiet on their drive back to the general’s estate. He is too.
Primal concerns for her safety under her father’s roof nip at his brainstem like fleas, overlayed with looping thoughts of how the information Officer Welsh has shared with them fits together with the desperate man who ordered him to save his daughter, no matter the cost. It’s an irritating puzzle with far too many pieces missing, and truthfully, he doesn’t care. Scheming and political games mean nothing to him, but still, he mulls over every word shared in that room, trying to work out whether his mate is safer under her father’s protection, or far away from it.
His mate.
He closes his eyes for a moment—long enough to resist the urge to glance at her staring out the passenger-side window. His instincts to protect her he can do nothing about—they’re hardwired into both biological and artificial bone—but the softening at the center of his sternum whenever he sees that vulnerable look in her otherwise cold gaze? That he wants nothing to do with. Whatever betrayal she feels, whatever hurt and anguish, she’s earned every ounce of it, and more.
The long driveway from the gates leading up to General Thompson’s estate is still dotted with uniformed men with weapons strapped over their shoulders. It feels less reassuring than it did upon their arrival last night.
When he parks the car by the front steps, the itching in his brainstem is nearly unbearable. Hands still clutching the steering wheel, he says, “We should stay somewhere else.”
She expels a breath by his side, almost as if she’s been waiting for him to break the silence. “There is nowhere else. He would know something was amiss if I left.”
Of course he would. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since he had his broken daughter returned.
AX2 finally turns to look at the dark-haired woman. His woman. It still feels like a punch to the gut. The sun reflects off wisps of hair framing her face and turn her gray eyes almost silver behind her glasses. With a force of will, he pushes down the ridiculous urge to reach out a hand and smooth the strands from her cheek. Evil. She is evil.
As if roused by his thoughts, she snaps her head toward him and says, “You will not say a word to anyone about the meeting today, nor what was discussed. That’s an order.”
His chip sparks with the command, and he bares his teeth at the surge of anger that follows on its heels. Taking her orders is becoming harder by the fucking hour—it grates against his alpha urges flaring hotly with the need to protect her.
“If asked, a command will keep you from being forced to answer. Tell them instead that it was a routine debriefing by a mid-level officer. Lieutenant Smith, if pressed for a name. I told him what happened, you told him what happened, the end.”
He stares at her for two long seconds. Did she just… give an explanation for an order?
She seems to realize the preposterousness too. Cheeks ever so faintly pink, she turns away and undoes her seatbelt without so much as another glance in his direction.
The debriefing is clearly far from General Thompson’s mind when he finally returns home several hours after dinner.
The oil paintings on the sitting room walls rattle with the force of the front door slamming.
AX2 jerks his head toward the sound, muscles tensing, but as he swings around to block the French doors leading into the room, Mrs. Thompson says, “It’s just Willy, dear.” She puts down her embroidery on the arm of her chair and gets up. “Sounds like a bad day at work.”
AX2 returns to his position next to the door, wrists clasped behind his back, allowing he older woman to pass.
On the sofa, her daughter doesn’t take her eyes off her book. He’d think her engrossed in the text if not for the fact she hasn’t flipped a page for hours.
He focuses on the soft murmurs from the hallways. The deeper rumble is indeed General Thompson, complaining about incompetent engineers. Mrs. Thompson, already soft-spoken, has further gentled her voice as she tells him she’s missed him. Asks him if he’s eaten.
Longing pangs sharply in AX2’s gut at the fresh memory of his own mate making him sandwiches, followed by the sensation of her hands sliding over his body with precise movements when she used to check him over after coming out of stasis.
He forces it down, disgusted with himself. A bit of food doesn’t change what she is. His mate will never greet him with soft words, nor—heat touches his cheeks at the unexpected whisper in the hallway—suggestions that she suck him better.
The general’s irritated rumble turns to a low chuckle. He promises he’ll take her up on her kind offer later, then makes his way to the sitting room, wife in tow.
“Addie, darling, did your debriefing go all right? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.” General Thompson, still in uniform and with a leather satchel over one shoulder, pauses just past the threshold, brushing a hand over his mate’s shoulder as she passes him to return to her chair.
“I understand—duty comes first,” his daughter replies, glancing at him before returning her gaze to her book. “It went fine. Just a regular debriefing.”
“Hmm.” He looks at her for a moment longer, opens his mouth as if to say more, but thinks better of it. Turning his focus to AX2, he rumbles, “It’s been a day, and I need a drink. Come with me.”