I barely had time to get breakfast down before someone knocked at my door.
It was a courier — young, nervous, probably no more than twenty — and he didn't meet my eyes when he handed over the tablet. Just mumbled something about "updated briefing notes for Nine's training track" and disappeared down the hall like he didn't want to be present for whatever would come next.
I didn't open the file immediately.
The device sat in my hands like a loaded weapon. Too light to be harmless. Too quiet to be safe.
Nyx fell still inside me.
Not the calm kind of stillness. The kind that came before a storm.
Something's wrong, she said, voice a low hiss in the back of my mind.
I tapped the screen. Logged in. Scanned the header.
Subject 9 | Revised Conditioning Protocol — Effective Immediately
My chest tightened.
I scrolled, pulse already ticking upward.
Each line hit harder than the last.
- Weekly heat cycle simulation: synthetic hormone induction via injection (compound 6-HX4)
- Restraint therapy: subject to be physically bound to mat or bench for 4–6 hours post-injection
- Genital contact forbidden during active heat stimulation phase
- Supervised observation: response levels tracked via biometric data and instructor reports
- Objective: Enhance emotional pliability + sexual responsiveness
I stared at the words.
Then I read them again.
As if they might rearrange themselves into something less vile.
They didn't.
My hand clenched around the edge of the tablet until the plastic creaked.
Nyx let out a snarl.
They're drugging him.
Not just drugging. Inducing heat.
Simulating full omega rut cycles.
Forcing him into that state.
Again and again.
Then tying him down and leaving him to writhe with nothing — no comfort, no outlet, no relief.
And all while they watched.
Recording his whimpers. Tracking his scent. Measuring how much pain it took to make him soft.
To make him compliant.
To make him beg.
I nearly dropped the tablet.
Managed to set it down instead — carefully, like it might explode.
This wasn't training.
It was conditioning.
Stripping him of control over his own body, over his instincts, over the very thing that made him his.
Nyx bared her teeth in my skull. They want him desperate. Dependent. So eager to please that he forgets who he was before them.
And they were using his body to do it.
He didn't even understand what heat was.
Didn't know the term. The biology. The chemicals surging beneath his skin.
But he'd feel the hunger.
The burn.
The ache to be touched. To be filled. To be claimed.
And instead of giving him answers, comfort, guidance—
They were giving him restraints.
Steel cuffs and blindfolds and orders.
They were watching him suffer, and calling it data.
Calling it progress.
Calling it obedience.
I stood up abruptly and paced the room, breath coming hard and fast.
I could see it too clearly in my head — Nine curled on a bench, wrists tied, thighs trembling, mouth open in a silent plea. His scent flooding the air, sweet and frantic, laced with confusion and heat-driven shame.
And the instructors?
They'd be smiling.
Taking notes.
Mocking how responsive he was becoming.
I stopped pacing and pressed my forehead to the cool wall.
Nyx seethed. He doesn't know what's happening to him. He thinks it's natural. Thinks he's wrong for needing touch. For needing us.
"I won't let them do this to him," I said aloud.
But the words felt hollow when I couldn't do anything yet.
I couldn't storm the observation deck. Couldn't demand access to his chart. Couldn't rip the syringes from their hands and expose them for what they were.
Not without losing what little leverage I had.
And if I lost it, they'd take him away from me completely.
They'd punish him for my rebellion.
And I'd never get near him again.
You have to be smart, Nyx growled, almost disgusted. Even if it means waiting.
Even if it means watching.
Even if it means standing behind glass while he cries out and doesn't know why I don't come for him.
My nails bit into my palms.
I breathed.
Once.
Twice.
And made myself sit back down.
The next session schedule would be listed somewhere. I'd find it. I'd figure out a way to be there.
Even if I couldn't stop it yet… I could be there.
And he'd know.
He'd know I saw him.
That I didn't look away.