Chapter 6

The command level of the base was quieter, the air heavier with authority.

Jefferson led Cassandra down a wide corridor lined with dark, reflective metal. At the end of the hall, standing outside a set of heavy double doors, was a man who looked like a walking mountain.

He was at least six-foot-five, his shoulders impossibly broad. He wore a dark green uniform decorated with rows of medals. His skin was a deep bronze, and a jagged, pale scar-a burn mark from an energy whip-slashed across his left cheek, pulling the corner of his eye down slightly.

This was Admiral Fletcher Bonner.

As they approached, Fletcher's posture stiffened. He looked at Cassandra, and the hardened, brutal lines of his face instantly melted into an expression of sheer, overwhelming panic.

He looked like a massive, terrifying predator that had suddenly realized it was standing on a very fragile pane of glass.

He didn't speak English. He looked at Jefferson, his dark eyes pleading, and spoke in a low, rumbling voice. His hands, which looked large enough to crush a skull, twitched nervously at his sides.

Jefferson listened, his expression neutral. He turned to Cassandra.

"This is Admiral Fletcher Bonner," Jefferson translated. "Commander of the First Fleet."

Cassandra offered a small, hesitant nod. "Hi."

Fletcher's chest puffed out slightly at her acknowledgment, but he quickly spoke again to Jefferson, his tone urgent and earnest.

Jefferson sighed softly. A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes before he smoothed it away.

"Ad-mir-al... knows of you," Jefferson translated, his AI still struggling to build complex sentences. "He thinks... standard room... not safe."

Cassandra frowned. "They aren't?"

"Room is safe," Jefferson assured her quickly. "But... he insists. Offers... his per-son-al quarters. For your... pro-tec-tion."

Cassandra stopped walking.

Her brain processed the words. Personal quarters.

She looked at Fletcher. He was a massive, scarred, high-ranking military commander. He was staring at her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. And he wanted her to move into his bedroom.

All the sci-fi horror stories she had ever read flooded her mind. The alien overlords. The breeding camps. The forced submissions.

Her stomach dropped to the floor. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

He wants me in his bed.

The thought made her physically nauseous. She took a step back, putting more distance between herself and the giant Admiral.

Fletcher saw her recoil. His face fell. He took a half-step forward, raising a hand as if to stop her from retreating, speaking rapidly to Jefferson.

"No," Cassandra said sharply, cutting off whatever Jefferson was about to translate.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her torso, digging her fingernails into her biceps. She glared at Fletcher, her fear morphing into a desperate, defensive anger.

"Tell him no," she snapped at Jefferson. "Tell him I appreciate his 'generosity,' but I am not moving into a strange man's bedroom. A standard room is fine. I just want to be left alone."

Jefferson's eyebrows pulled together. He looked from Cassandra's pale, furious face to Fletcher's devastated one. He realized immediately that a massive cultural translation error had occurred, but he didn't have the vocabulary to explain it to her yet.

He turned to Fletcher and spoke in their native tongue. His tone was firm, delivering the rejection.

Fletcher Bonner, the terror of the First Fleet, physically deflated.

His broad shoulders slumped. He dropped his gaze to the floor, staring at his boots. He looked exactly like a massive, abused dog that had just been kicked for trying to bring its owner a toy.

The sheer misery radiating from him was palpable.

Cassandra watched him, her anger faltering into deep confusion. Why is he acting like that? I just refused to sleep with him. He should be angry, not heartbroken.

Nothing about this world made sense. The over-the-top protection, the manic doctor, the giant general acting like a rejected teenager.

A new, chilling thought crept into her mind. What if it's not just him? What if this is how they all are?

She looked at Jefferson. He was watching her carefully, his blue eyes unreadable.

Can I even trust him? she wondered, her heart rate picking up again. Or is he just playing a longer game?

"Let's go," she said to Jefferson, her voice tight and cold. "Just take me to my room."