4. Chapter Four

Sylas

I’m in the presence of two things I’ve never encountered before: a human female and a dog. For a moment, I freeze. Perhaps the predator DNA lurking somewhere deep inside me is fighting with the prey species my makers mixed me with.

I’m torn from my paralysis when the four-legged creature snarls, barks, and paws the ground. He’s not keeping his distance, but is encroaching into my territory, his fangs barred.

“Is this your beast?” I ask, my gaze flicking to the female only long enough to ensure she doesn’t pose a threat. I neither see nor smell a weapon, so my attention returns to the dog.

“Tator Tot will rip you to shreds if you so much as look like you’re going to hurt either one of us.”

“To hurt me, he’ll have to get close to me. Before he can do that, I can kick him hard enough to send him into the next county.” I punctuate my statement by stomping my hooves, hoping the dog perceives it as a threat, and backs off before I have to get aggressive.

I’ve watched dozens of hours of elk videos on YouTube. Elk may be herbivores, but they can stomp the living shit out of another thousand-pound elk. Little Tater Tot won’t stand a chance against me.

The hackles on the dog’s back are standing erect. “He’s going to launch at me any second. I really don’t want to hurt him,” I warn.

Perhaps it’s my reluctance to harm her dog that pushes her into action.

“Tater! Down!”

The dog is clearly torn between obeying his master and following his instincts. Believe me, buddy, I’ve been there.

“Tater. Come!”

Slowly, reluctantly, the dog backs toward the female, never taking his threatening gaze off me.

“Who? What… are you?” Her eyes are wide in fright, and I can hear her heart drumming in her chest.

It’s only now, my adrenaline tapering from its spike, that I realize I have a bigger problem than a protective dog. I’ve been seen by a human who doesn’t have top-secret clearance. This is far worse than being mauled by Tater Tot.

Although my soldier brain is still assessing the danger and weighing possible responses, my human brain is sizing the woman up. She’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever met, which isn’t saying much, since she’s the only woman I’ve ever met.

She’s quirky, with one side of her head shaved and the other covered in lush, long burnt-orange hair. Is she shorter than most women, or is this a normal human height? I wonder what she would look like when her forehead isn’t furrowed, her brows aren’t slanted down in angry slashes, and her mouth isn’t in a flat, furious line.

“You—” I cut myself off before I urge her to leave. She can’t leave. If knowledge of the splicers’ existence gets out before the military has time to prepare the public or do damage control, it puts all of us at risk. We’ve suffered enough!

How do I keep a civilian—and her headstrong dog—here against her wishes? Should I contact Colonel Slater now, or wait?

“You’ve stumbled into a top-secret military base.”

Her shoulders droop and she nods. “I wondered…” She gestures behind her. “The brand-new fence.”

“Yes. And…” I gesture toward my rack, my hairy legs and my stumpy tail, “me.”

“Holy. Shit.” Then she looks at me, her eyes wide, perhaps in unspoken apology because most others would construe her “holy shit” comment as rude. “I’m sorry. I mean… I didn’t mean…”

Seeing a splicer for the first time must be shocking. I grew up around humans, albeit evil ones. Even being in the presence of a human female for the first time in my life couldn’t be as surprising as what’s reflected on her face as her gaze slides up and down my frame.

“No offense taken. I’m Sylas, by the way.”

“Calliope Quinn. You can call me Cally.” She reaches out a hand to shake, then not only snatches it back, but retreats an extra step.

“We have a problem, Calliope Quinn.” I’m not sure why I didn’t take her up on her offer to call her Cally. Perhaps it’s because my body doesn’t need the smallest invitation of intimacy. I’m already easing out of fight or flight and returning to the insistent state of rut that forced me to the far corner of the property.

By the way her face drains of color, it appears she might have already figured out what I’m about to say.

“I’m a genetic hybrid. We call ourselves splicers. There are one hundred of us on this property. The press, and then the general populace, will eat us alive when they find out about us. Until certain things slot into place, our existence must remain a secret. The Commanding Officer isn’t going to allow you and Tater Tot to leave. Not after what you’ve seen.”

I haven’t felt my predator instincts so close to the surface since the evil scientists who bred me forced me to use them. Somehow, though, I know she’s about to bolt. The moment her muscles tense in preparation to make a break for it, I say, “I can take you to the ground in two seconds flat, Cally. Don’t run. I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s talk. See if we can work something out.”

Why did I offer that? There’s nothing to work out. Colonel Slater will never allow her off the property. Nor should he. It would endanger us all.