Page 21 of Shadow's Claim

"Liar," Kael responds, the word caressing rather than accusing. "So many thoughts still locked away behind those pretty eyes. Resistance networks. Safe houses. Communication channels." His voice drops to a whisper that somehow fills the entire room. "Give them to me, and I'll reward you in ways that make this past week seem like mere foreplay."

As he speaks, I feel something cold brush against my consciousness—like fingertips of ice tracing patterns along the inside of my skull. The sensation isn't painful but deeply violating, more intimate than any physical penetration.

I slam mental barriers into place, visualizing the techniques resistance psychologists drilled into us. Create a maze. Build false pathways. Construct decoy memories with just enough truth to seem plausible.

The pressure withdraws immediately, Kael's head tilting slightly as his violet eyes narrow. "Such strong walls you've built," he says, something like admiration coloring his tone. "But I've felt how you shatter under my touch. How you break apart when I'm deep inside you. Those walls will crumble just as beautifully."

"Stay out of my head," I hiss, pressing fingers against my temples as though physical barriers might reinforce mental ones.

"Impossible now," he says, moving closer until his shadow falls across me. "We're connected, you and I. Every time I filled you, every time my knot locked inside you, every time you came apart in my arms—we built bridges between our minds whether you wanted them or not."

The implications terrify me more than any physical violation. Temporary access to my body is a violation I can eventually recover from. Permanent connection to my mind? That's erasure of the final boundary between captive and captor.

"There is no 'connection,'" I insist, though even I hear the desperation behind the denial. "You claimed my body. That's it."

Three of his arms move into a new configuration while the fourth extends toward me, shadows gathering around his fingers like living extensions. "Let me show you exactly how connected we are."

Before I can react, his hand presses against my forehead, shadows extending from his fingertips to wrap around my temples. The cold intensifies, no longer a gentle probe but focused pressure against mental barriers I've maintained through years of resistance training.

I fight with everything I have, employing every technique ever taught for countering psychic invasion. I construct elaborate false memories—resistance meetings in locations that don't exist, faces deliberately altered to protect real operatives, communication codes with subtle errors that would render them useless.

Behind those decoys, I build mental mazes with false endpoints, creating the illusion of successful penetration while protecting core information. I focus on translation exercises—complex linguistic patterns that require complete concentration, occupying conscious thoughts with material irrelevant to resistance activities.

For precious moments, it seems to work. The pressure remains constant but contained, unable to penetrate beyond the superficial layers I've deliberately constructed as sacrifice zones.

Then Kael's approach changes. Rather than increasing the psychic pressure, he withdraws completely, both mentally and physically. The sudden absence leaves me disoriented, swaying slightly on the platform.

"Interesting technique," he says, four arms folding across his massive chest. "Did the resistance design those mental mazes specifically for shadow demon interrogation, or are they effective against all Prime psychic intrusion?"

The question is so unexpected, so specific to what I was doing rather than what I was hiding, that I almost answer reflexively. I catch myself at the last moment, recognizing the trap.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I manage, voice steadier than I feel.

"Of course you do." One shadow-black hand makes a dismissive gesture. "The compartmentalization is quite sophisticated. Far beyond standard human mental discipline. Someone taught you those techniques." His violet eyes narrow. "Someone who understands shadow demon abilities intimately."

The observation sends ice through my veins. Very few humans possess that knowledge. Most who did were eliminated during the Blood Week or in subsequent purges of human alphas with special abilities. The resistance has exactly three psychologists trained in counter-Prime mental techniques. If Kael suspects their existence...

I force my expression to remain neutral, but something in my eyes must betray me because his mouth curves into a predatory smile.

"There. That momentary calculation. That fear. You've just confirmed my theory," he says with disturbing satisfaction. "Now let's try a different approach."

He turns away, shadows extending from his body to manipulate something across the chamber I can't see clearly. When he returns, I'm shocked to see a familiar silver pendant dangling from one massive hand.

My suppression pendant. The one he took when he captured me.

"Interesting device," he says, rotating it slowly to catch the light. "Not standard resistance suppressants. Something more specialized. Custom-made, perhaps?" His eyes meet mine over the pendant. "Someone with considerable chemical expertise created this for you specifically."

Again, he's probing with disturbing accuracy. My suppressants aren't standard black market formulations. They were developed specifically for my unique biochemistry by Constantin's team. Their effectiveness is why I've survived undetected for three years when most resistance omegas are caught within months.

I say nothing, but Kael doesn't seem to expect a response. Instead, he crushes the pendant in his hand, shadow-black fingers squeezing until fine silver dust sifts between them onto the platform.

"The chemical traces are quite distinctive," he continues conversationally. "Similar compounds appeared in that resistance operative we captured last month. The one who managed to resist standard truth protocols for nearly forty-eight hours before breaking."

My heart stutters. He's talking about Julian. One of our chemical specialists who disappeared during a supply run. The resistance assumed he'd been killed. If he was captured and interrogated...

"You're lying," I say, but the words lack conviction. Kael's strategy is becoming clear—he doesn't need to invade my mind directly if he can trick me into confirming what he already suspects.

"Am I?" Three of his arms position themselves in a formal truth-stance. "Julian Mercer. Age thirty-four. Beta male with specialized chemical training. Captured in the eastern sector on the seventh of last month carrying similar suppressant compounds to what you had."

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