Page 15 of Stolen By the Wraiths (Rift Wraiths #1)
T he Epsilon Facility rose from the asteroid's barren surface, all sterile angles and polished metal, projecting the kind of institutional authority that made innocent people nervous and guilty ones sweat.
As our transport approached the docking bay, Ressh's predatory focus rolled over me, protective and possessive.
My pulse stuttered and desire coiled in my core.
"Remember," he murmured as we gathered our fabricated maintenance equipment, his voice carrying a low timbre that made my skin flush, "we're routine contractors here for standard bio-scanner calibration. Married last month, still adjusting to the permanent bonding."
The words sent liquid fire through me, an echo of last night's claiming.
The ache between my thighs and sensitive skin on my throat were intimate reminders, but sharper still was the constant hum of his emotions—calm determination wrapped around fierce protectiveness, making me feel both invincible and desperately aroused.
"Got it," I replied, adjusting the tool kit on my shoulder.
I consulted the facility schematic, my fingers tracing the lines with more force than necessary—a flimsy anchor against the magnetic pull of his body, a desperate attempt to focus on the mission when all my instincts were screaming to turn and melt against him.
"Try not to look like you want to fuck me against the nearest wall. "
His dark chuckle sent a tremor through me, hunger spiking through our bond. "That's not helping my concentration," he growled, low enough that only I could hear.
The docking bay was precisely what I'd expected—all business, no comfort.
Security personnel moved with military precision while automated systems handled cargo transfer.
But what I noticed immediately was how everyone gave us space.
Not obvious avoidance, but the subtle deference that bonded Tsekai commanded throughout the galaxy.
"Transport V-739, you're cleared for departure in 30 minutes," the bay supervisor announced without looking directly at us. Standard protocol when dealing with bonded pairs—minimal interaction unless absolutely necessary.
Perfect. Exactly the reaction we needed.
The security checkpoint was where our cover would be tested.
Advanced bio-scanners, pheromonal analysis equipment, and genetic verification systems designed to catch infiltrators.
But as we approached the screening station, calm confidence flowed from him.
My training screamed for situational awareness, but my body was tuned to a different frequency—his.
A low, primal hum of possession that bypassed conscious thought and settled deep in my gut.
His scent was stronger here—territorial musk mixed with something purely male. When he moved behind me in the queue, his presence was a wall of heat; I had to fight the impulse to lean back, to surrender.
"Documentation," the security officer requested, her tone professional but wary. Human, maybe thirtysomething, with the kind of careful composure that came from dealing with dangerous people regularly.
I stood slightly behind Ressh, letting his presence dominate the interaction. His hand settled at my lower back—possessive, claiming. I forced myself to stay professional, even as current arced through me, sharp and hot.
Our false identities passed the scanner's scrutiny with quiet affirmation. But it was his thumb, stroking subtle circles against my spine through my shirt, that made concentration nearly impossible.
"Behave," I whispered, though my traitorous body was already responding.
"Never," he murmured back, his voice a low rasp.
Then came the bio-scan. Invisible energy washed over us, reading genetic markers, hormone levels, and neurochemical patterns. The moment it detected our bond was a tangible shift in the air—biochemical signatures that were impossible to fake because they were completely genuine.
"Tsekai bonding confirmed," the officer noted, her posture relaxing slightly as she stepped back from whatever pheromonal field we were unconsciously projecting. "Congratulations on your recent pairing. How long?"
"Four weeks," Ressh replied, his hand sliding lower on my back. "Still learning to control the intensity."
That was the understatement of the century. The intensity was overwhelming—constant awareness of his desire, physiological responses to his scent that scrambled my focus, and the way my body craved his touch even during this dangerous mission. It was also the most addictive thing in the universe.
"Bio-scanner maintenance, labs seven through twelve," I managed, keeping my voice steady. "Should be finished by end of shift."
"Cleared for restricted access," the officer confirmed, practically shoving our documentation back at us. "Escort protocols waived due to cultural considerations."
I glanced back and saw the look of smug satisfaction on his face. Not just professional success—it was raw, male pride, and I knew he could see how obviously affected I was by his touch.
Phase one complete. We were inside, credentials verified, with freedom to move through areas that would normally require supervision.
The facility corridors were clean and sterile, designed for efficiency rather than comfort. But knowing what these hallways led to—the torture chambers disguised as laboratories, the systematic destruction of everything beautiful about bonding—made the clinical atmosphere feel sinister.
More distracting was Ressh's constant presence at my side. The narrow corridor seemed to shrink around us, every molecule of air charged with his territorial energy. The bond made me hypersensitive to him in ways that were becoming problematic for mission focus.
"Research wing," he said quietly as we passed a directional sign, his voice carrying undertones that made my skin flush.
"Maintenance access should connect," I replied, consulting the facility schematic I'd memorized. "Service corridor B-7 runs parallel to the research areas."
He nodded, and approval flowed into me. It was more than professional acknowledgment; it was the fierce approval of a mate whose chosen partner was skilled enough to handle whatever we might face. Warmth flooded through me that was purely personal, response to his possessive pride.
We found the maintenance access exactly where the schematics indicated—a narrow corridor lined with environmental systems and power conduits.
The kind of space designed to be invisible, which made it perfect for our purposes.
I connected my portable scanner to the facility's internal network while Ressh kept watch, his protective instincts filling the confined space with territorial energy.
"Five minutes to crack their security protocols," I murmured, watching data stream across my display while acutely aware of how his body caged me against the access panel.
He wasn't quite touching me, but the heat from his body, his scent, and the barely controlled desire radiating from him made my hands shake as I worked.
"Their system architecture is surprisingly sophisticated for a research station," I managed, though my concentration was fracturing under the weight of his presence.
"Too sophisticated," he agreed, stepping closer—close enough that his chest brushed my back when I reached for another connection point. The contact lit up every nerve ending, and I had to choke back a sound. "This isn't standard corporate research. This is military-grade operational security."
"Stop distracting me," I whispered desperately, though my body was arching back against him of its own accord.
"Can't," he growled against my ear. "Being this close to you and not touching is agony."
His confession sent liquid heat coiling in my core, making concentration on the data stream nearly impossible.
But somehow I managed to crack their first security layer, revealing directory structures that made ice form in my veins.
Not research files, but prisoner management systems. Medical monitoring databases tracking vital signs, psychological evaluation protocols, and something called Bond Integrity Assessment—a clinical term for torture.
"Ressh," I whispered, gesturing to my display. "Look at this."
The files were horrifying in their clinical precision. Subject designations rather than names. Experimental procedures documented with scientific detachment. Before and after psychological profiles tracking the systematic destruction of natural bonding mechanisms.
But worse than the documentation were the real-time monitoring systems. Active subjects currently held in the facility's experimental wings. Forty-three individuals according to the database, representing six different species with biological bonding capabilities.
"They're here," I said, my voice barely audible. "They're in those cells right now, being tortured."
His rage crackled through the air, but beneath the anger was pure determination: end this and rescue every victim. And make someone pay.
The violence of his emotions should have frightened me. Instead, his rage was a terrifying, beautiful thing, sparking a dark thrill inside me—primal recognition of the predator who had claimed me.
"Detention level three," he said, reading over my shoulder while his body radiated lethal intent. "Experimental wings Alpha through Delta. How do we access those areas?"
"Service elevator at the end of this corridor," I managed. "But there'll be additional security at the research levels."
"We'll handle it," he said with absolute confidence that flowed into me like molten steel. "Show me the prisoner locations."
The database was a catalog of horror. Tsekai males, separated and chemically suppressed. Akaruun pairs, their energy alignment broken by EM fields. Races I didn't recognize, every bond targeted and dismantled.