The hum of the medical bay's ventilation system was the first thing Lexa heard as she drifted back to consciousness. Her neck was stiff, her back aching from the rigid, upright position she had fallen into. As her eyes flickered open, the sterile, fluorescent white of the room blinded her for a moment. She was slumped in the chrome chair beside the examination table, her head resting against the cool metal of the supply cabinet.
Confusion swirled in her mind. Why am I in the sub-levels?
Then, the memories of the previous night came rushing back like a flood of cold, dirty water. The docks. The blood. The war-shift. And then... the med-bay.
Lexa's breath hitched as she remembered the way she had practically thrown herself at Killian. She could still feel the phantom heat of his skin against her palms and the taste of salt and rain on his lips. She remembered the desperate, frantic way she had pleaded for his touch, and the devastating, calm dignity with which he had refused her.
"God," she whispered, burying her face in her hands.
Heat crawled up her neck, a deep, burning flush of embarrassment. She was the Shadow Queen. she was the woman who had brought the Valenti brothers to their knees with a single look. And yet, she had begged a man who was technically her prisoner to take her on a cold medical table. Worse than that, he had turned her down to "save her" from herself.
She felt a momentary pang of something that felt dangerously like regret or perhaps an apology, forming in her throat. I should tell him I wasn't myself. I should explain the adrenaline.
But as quickly as the thought formed, she crushed it under the heel of her pride. Romano did not apologize for wanting. Romano did not explain themselves to subordinates. If she apologized, she was admitting he had power over her. She was admitting the bond still had teeth.
"No," she muttered, standing up and smoothing her crumpled tactical gear. "He's a dog in a collar. Nothing more."
By the time she reached the loading docks at 9:00 AM, the mask was back on, thicker and more jagged than ever.
The warehouse was a hive of activity. Romano soldiers were moving the crates of silver-nitrate stabilizers with heavy forklifts, their movements efficient and silent. Killian was already there, positioned near the main shipping container.
He had changed into a fresh black shirt that strained against his shoulders, the leather collar still buckled firmly around his neck.
As Lexa walked onto the floor, the air seemed to chill. She didn't look at him. She kept her eyes fixed on the clipboard in her hand.
"Vincenzo," she barked, her voice echoing off the high steel rafters. "Why aren't these crates logged yet? I pay you to be precise, not to stand around admiring the scenery."
Vincenzo blinked, taken aback by the sheer venom in her tone. "We're just doing the final count, Boss. We'll be done in ten.."
"Do it in five," she snapped, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete as she stalked past Killian.
She felt his gaze on her, heavy, molten, and filled with a silent, agonizing concern. It made her skin crawl. She hated that he knew her secret. She hated that he had seen her bleed.
"Alessandra," Killian said softly as she passed.
Lexa stopped dead. She didn't turn around. "It's 'Don Romano' or 'Boss' when we are on the floor, Alpha. I thought we established that."
"We need to talk about last night," he said, stepping closer. He kept his voice low so the guards couldn't hear, but the vibration of it still sent a traitorous thrill through her body. "You don't have to be ashamed of…"
"Ashamed?" Lexa turned then, her eyes flashing with a cruel, mocking light. She let out a short, sharp laugh. "You have a very high opinion of yourself, Killian. Last night was a lapse in judgment brought on by a chemical imbalance. I was coming off a high-stress combat situation, and you were the nearest warm body. It was a purely biological urge, like wanting a glass of water after a desert trek."
Killian's jaw tightened, the amber in his eyes darkening. "That's not what it was, and you know it."
"What I know is that you're slowing down my operation," she said, stepping into his space, her finger poking hard against the center of his chest, right over his bandaged wounds. She saw him wince, and she felt a sick sense of satisfaction. "You're here to ensure the cargo reaches the North. If you can't handle being a professional, I'll have Vincenzo throw you back in the basement and I'll send the shipment with a driver who knows how to keep his mouth shut."
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Don't ever mention last night again. If you touch me, or even look at me with that pathetic 'mate' expression, I will have the guards use the silver-gas on you until you forget your own name. Am I clear?"
Killian stared down at her. He didn't look angry; he looked disappointed, which was far worse. He looked at her like a man watching a beautiful thing destroy itself.
"Crystal clear, Boss," he rasped, the words heavy with a bitter irony.
"Good. Now get to work. Start loading the silver into the lead-lined trucks. And do it yourself. I want to see if those muscles of yours are good for anything other than getting in my way."
She turned her back on him, her heart thundering so loudly she was sure the whole room could hear it. She walked away, throwing out orders with a cruelty that made her own men flinch. She was the Shadow Queen again. She was in control.
But as she watched Killian heave a massive crate of silver onto the truck, his muscles rippling under the strain, she felt the ache in her chest return. She had pushed him away, she had insulted him, and she had asserted her dominance.
So why did it feel like she was the one sitting in a cage?