Page 27 of Stolen By the Wraiths
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.
"Subject T-47," I read from one file, my voice shaking with suppressed rage. "Male Tsekai, age approximately 25 standard years. Bonded status: Artificially severed. Current condition: Catatonic withdrawal. Experimental protocol: Forced rebonding with designated subject."
"They're trying to create artificial bonds," Ressh said, his voice carrying the kind of deadly calm that preceded violence. "Control natural connections, turn love into a weapon."
The service elevator was exactly where the schematics indicated, but accessing it required administrative credentials we didn't possess. I connected my intrusion kit to the control panel while Ressh monitored the corridor for security patrols, his protective instincts making the confined space thick with territorial pheromones.
"Sixty seconds," I murmured, watching my programs work through the facility's security protocols while fighting not to be distracted by the way his scent was affecting me. "Their encryption is military-grade, but the implementation has exploitable weaknesses."
"Company," he said quietly.
Two security guards rounded the corner, their movements casual and professional, suggesting routine patrol rather than active investigation. But their presence meant we needed to abort the current approach and find alternative access.
"Maintenance staff," Ressh called out, stepping into view with confident authority that made my core clench with want. The way he commanded any situation was intoxicating—natural dominance that extended far beyond our private moments. "Bio-scanner calibration in the research wing. Elevator access required for equipment transport."
"Restricted area," one guard replied, his hand moving toward his weapon. "Authorization required for research level access."
"Of course," I said, producing our fabricated work orders while hyperaware of how Ressh had positioned himself slightly in front of me—protective, possessive, ready to destroy anyone who threatened me. "The lab supervisor requested priority maintenance after yesterday's calibration errors. Should be in your system under priority dispatch 7749."
The guards checked their data pads, scanning for authorization that didn't exist. I held my breath—then my intrusion programs finally cracked the elevator controls, and the doors slid open with soft chimes.
"There we go," I said with satisfaction born not of technical success, but of earning my mate's approval. "System recognized our credentials. We'll be done within two hours."
The guards stepped aside, unwilling to interfere with what appeared to be legitimate maintenance work. We entered the elevator, the doors closing behind us as we descended toward the research levels where systematic torture was disguised as scientific progress.
But being trapped in the small space with Ressh was its own form of torture. His scent was overwhelming here, making my body respond with shameless need that I couldn't hide from him. When he crowded closer—ostensibly to check the floor display—his proximity made rational thought nearly impossible.
"Focus," I whispered desperately.
"I am focused," he replied, his voice a low growl. "On you. Always on you."
"Level three," the elevator announced as we reached our destination.
The detention level was a maze of corridors and secured chambers, each door bearing numerical designations that corresponded to the prisoner database I'd accessed. But one thing stood out immediately: the silence. No voices, no movement, just the hum of environmental systems and the soft beeping of medical monitoring equipment.
"This way," I whispered, consulting the facility layout while his protective instincts filled our shared space with predatory alertness.
We found the first experimental chamber through a reinforced viewport, and what I saw inside made bile rise inmy throat. A Tsekai male strapped to an examination table as sterile-clad figures administered procedures that were obviously torture. His silver markings had faded to gray lifelessness, and his eyes stared at nothing, his soul having withdrawn to a place beyond anyone's reach.
"Subject T-47," I realized, cross-referencing the database. "They've been working on him for six months."
Ressh's fury was a living thing flowing into me, making my own rage burn brighter. But we couldn't help this victim without compromising our position. Not yet. We needed more information—a complete picture of the facility's operations—before attempting a rescue.
The next chamber held an Akaruun pair who'd been forcibly separated despite their energy alignment. Both were unconscious, connected to monitoring equipment that tracked their biological responses to various forms of induced trauma. The clinical documentation described it as research into forced bonding dissolution.
"Monsters," I whispered, unable to process the systematic cruelty with anything approaching rational analysis.
"We'll stop this," Ressh promised, his determination flowing into me like an anchor in the storm of horror. "Every one of them will pay for what they've done."
