Page 75 of Taken

“Ten minutes,” the final guard says. “Observation protocols in effect.”

I nod once, then step inside as the door slides open.

The room is different from her previous quarters. Smaller. More sterile. No windows, no personal items, not even the little paper dragons she used to fold. Just a narrow bed, a steel toilet, and unforgiving white light from recessed fixtures. A cage stripped of even the pretense of comfort.

Lila sits on the bed, back straight, hands folded in her lap. The elegant poise of a queen, not a prisoner. Her hair falls in a dark curtain over one shoulder, highlighting how fragile her bone structure seems. New bruises blossom along her jaw, her wrists, telling stories of resistance and punishment.

Beautiful, even in confinement.

No, not confinement. Temporary setback.

I’m getting her out, goddammit!

My chest tightens at the sight of her bruises. The urge to touch them, to heal them with gentle fingertips, is almost overwhelming. Instead, I clench my fists at my sides, scales prickling beneath my knuckles in response to my rage at what they’ve done to her.

Her eyes lift to mine as the door closes behind me. Sharp with intelligence and something darker. A hunger I recognize because it mirrors my own.

“Security Chief.” Her voice reveals nothing to any listening ears. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I move toward her, maintaining professional distance though everything in me wants to gather her close, to taste her mouth again, to feel her skin beneath my hands. To take her away from this sterile hell.

“Just a security assessment.” I keep my voice level, eyes darting to the camera in the corner, then back to her face. “Standard procedure after a containment upgrade.”

Understanding flickers across her features. She plays along seamlessly.

“Of course.” She gestures to the room. “As you can see, I’m quite secure.”

I pretend to inspect the space, moving deliberately to create blind spots in the camera’s coverage. When I’m directly beneath it, my back to the lens, I mouth two words to her.

Your daughter.

Her eyes widen slightly, pulse jumping visibly at the base of her throat. That pulse point—I remember pressing my lips against it during our stolen moment. How her heartbeat had raced beneath my touch, a rhythm I wanted to memorize.

“I think you’ll find that your new circumstances will discourage any further thought of rebellion,” I say aloud forany listening ears. But I hope she’ll read between the lines; the increased security is going to hinder our plans of escape.

“Does it?” Her tone is perfectly balanced between disinterest and resignation.

“The current situation requires…” I pause, selecting my words carefully, “recalibration of priorities.” In other words, the Collective thinks it’s more important to keep an eye on the shitshow with Craven. It burns to think about it,

“The Syndicate scrambling to maintain control,” she translates, voice dry. “How unusual.”

Dangerous words with surveillance active, but I admire her spirit. Always defiant, even when it costs her. The same fire that drew me to her that first day, that’s had her etched into my brain since those first moments.

“The world is… adjusting,” I say, moving to inspect the opposite wall, creating another moment of privacy. “Your daughter is safe,” I whisper when the camera can’t see my lips. “With Craven.”

Something flashes across her face—hope, relief, fierce pride—before she masks it. She dips her chin, the tiniest of nods. I’m not sure if she’s acknowledging my words or letting me know that she already knew. It wouldn’t surprise me if she did. Something has changed since I saw her last.

“Adjusting,” she repeats, loud enough for the microphones. “Quite the understatement.”

“Circumstances necessitate careful management,” I continue the official conversation. “All assets secured until further notice.”

“Translation: I’m not going anywhere.” Her mouth curves in bitter amusement. “Shocking.”

I turn, catching her gaze, trying to convey what I can’t say aloud. That I haven’t abandoned her. That plans have changed, not ended. That I’m still working to free her. That the taste of herstill lingers on my lips, that her scent haunts my dreams, that the thought of her in pain makes my dragon rage against its chains.

Something strange happens as our eyes lock. A pressure builds inside my skull, not painful but insistent. Like standing too close to a subwoofer, feeling sound as physical force rather than noise.

It’s me…

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