Page 1 of Designation Prey

PROLOGUE

Private Daniel Burrows knows the advantages of getting a designation. His ranking in the military would be higher, and he’d get promoted faster. He’d get a large enough signing bonus that he could put a down payment on a house.

If he had any interest in buying a house, that would be more alluring.

He could get engaged and prepare to start a family… if there was someone he had any interest in being engaged to.

Daniel’s pretty sure he can’t have a family. After. Though he isn’t sure. How in the hell would that work? That’s the sort of thing he doesn’t want to think too much about. Would he want to marry a man?

Anyway.

There are benefits to being a lab rat aside from the financial aspects—the benefits his father and brother focus on.

He’ll be stronger, smarter, and faster. He’ll build muscle more quickly than a normal man. He might never catch a cold again. He’ll heal faster, have increased longevity (so long as he doesn’t have to be put down or frozen), and his hearing and vision will be perfect. There are definitely benefits.

And if he became a Dominant then his father would be proud of him.

The man would have no choice in the matter. For once in Daniel’s life he might hear the magic words: “Good job, son. I’m proud of you.”

Failing that, he might get a shoulder squeeze of approval. Or maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. The bar of what Daniel would take as “praise” is embedded in the floor.

The problem is that becoming a Dominant isn’t a certainty. The military has gotten better about predicting who will be submissive and who will be Dominant, but it isn’t exact. And Daniel hasn’t quite decided what’s an acceptable level of risk. What if there’s a five percent chance of becoming submissive? That’s five out of every hundred men. Those are pretty good odds, but they’re still not great.

Maybe one in five thousand would be good enough odds. Definitely ten thousand.

Daniel’s father is about to tell him the likelihood of him becoming a submissive. Surely if it’s too high then his father won’t want him to do it, right?

“Eight percent,” Daniel’s father says, looking at him sternly across his large mahogany desk. Daniel hates this desk. He’s been whipped with a branch over this fucking desk more times than he can count.

That’s terrible, he thinks about saying.It isn’t worth the risk. I don’t want to do it.

His father turns his gaze to Daniel’s brother Logan. “Twelve percent.”

Ah, hell.

Daniel can see Logan grip the chair tightly, knuckles white against the carved wood. “What do you think I should do, Sir?” Logan asks, leaving it up to their father.

Daniel wants to punch him.

“Our family has been in the military for five generations. We have always fought with integrity and bravery. We do not run from our duty. No boys of mine would turn down this opportunity to become the best of the best, no matter the odds. Your grandfather’s odds on D-Day certainly weren’t above fifty percent chance of survival. That’s how heroes are made. Real men take the risk.”

Logan nods in agreement. “Yes, Sir.”

Daniel wants to howl in protest. He wants to get up and run from the room, but how can he when he only has an eight percent chance of becoming a submissive while Logan is at twelve percent?

“That is the right decision,” their father says. And then he turns to Daniel.

“I want to make you proud,” Daniel tells him, voice wavering. He has to clear his throat—it’s so terrifying to argue with his father. But he’s an adult. He needs to do better than this.

“This is a good start,” their father says, and stands up.

“But I can’t do it,” Daniel forces himself to say. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to risk it.” Bile fills his mouth. He might throw up all over his father’s desk.

“It’s a matter of will, Daniel. If you are steadfast in who you are, if you have no moral failings, then you have nothing to worry about. Do you have the will to become a Dominant?”

Daniel is almost positive “will” doesn’t have anything to do with it. “I do believe in myself, but it’s a… risk. All sorts of good men come out wrong, I mean submissive?—”

“Not my sons,” his father retorts, voice a low hiss of rage.

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