Page 98 of Crimson Moon Falling

Wilson inclined his head. “The Commander has become a liability, and his methods are extreme. He’s also willing to modify the human population to gain the upper hand. He even modified himself, for God’s sake. He’s compromising our long-term objectives.”

“What are your long-term objectives?”

Wilson tilted his head. “Your uncle was a Marine. Did he train you?”

“What incentive do I have to tell you anything?”

Wilson brushed his sleeve. “The real question is what will happen to you if you don’t. The supernatural population doesn’t deserve equal status with Normals.”

The man seemed to believe what he was saying. “So you want to exploit and control the rest of us, and eliminate those you can’t control.”

“I want you regulated, registered, and monitored. The more powerful you are, the more oversight you require. Your mate, for example, is a Category Ten threat. He’s also wealthy, commands a Pack of tens of thousands of shifters, and has political connections and sway. That’s a concentration of power that shouldn’t exist.”

“He doesn’t abuse his power or try to exploit people who aren’t like him. I think he’s one of the few who does deserve that power.”

I probed Wilson’s energy. Beneath his calm, rational exterior, I sensed his deeply ingrained dislike and prejudice. He didn’t merely disagree with granting supernaturals rights. He resented us on a visceral level.

“You hate me just because I’m a Cog.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “I don’t know you well enough to like or dislike you, Ms. Blackthorne.”

“I’m a level eight Resonant, General. I know exactly how you feel. You resent that you find me compelling, and you loathe my kind.”

Wilson studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“Langston, step out for a few minutes.”

Langston turned and walked out as Wilson walked over, yanked the wire from the camera, and came to sit on the side of my bed.

“You need to watch your mouth and show some respect, Ms. Blackthorne, or you won’t see the light of day. My brother was killed by a female cat shifter,” he murmured, glancing down at my wolf necklace. “Our unit was ambushed. The shifter was a translator working undercover for the enemy, and she tore out his throat before any of us could react.” His voice didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. “I held him as he bled out, gurgling for air. He planned to marry that thing and bring her back with him. He was only twenty-four.”

I said nothing.

“My ex-wife was an Empath,” he continued. His energy shifted as sorrow gave way to resentment. “She left when my son was four years old and moved to Oregon. She said she couldn’t live with my rage and resentment anymore.” The pieces clicked into place. His hatred stemmed from personal experiences, not just generational prejudices passed on from childhood.

The door hissed open again, and Langston walked back in with a man wearing a white coat. The man was likely a doctor, about forty, with a military buzz cut and cold, assessing eyes. His energy felt sharp, like a scalpel.

He glanced at me, then looked at my chart and the monitors. “You’re right, Director. She’s metabolizing at an accelerated rate. Interesting.”

Wilson and Langston stood at the foot of my bed. Wilson’s hands were clasped behind his back, his posture military straight. Langston had his arms crossed, his face expressionless.

“I want a complete physical assessment and a detailed scan of the implant, Doctor Becker,” Wilson instructed.

The doctor nodded, washed up, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he started looking me over.

“No swelling at the insertion site. No signs of rejection or infection.” He moved to my chest, listening with a stethoscope, then checked my eyes with a penlight. Each touch was brisk and impersonal, as if he were checking the tire pressure.

Then his hands moved lower. “A full checkup includes a gynecological exam. It’s standard protocol for female detainees.”

My stomach dropped. The implant buzzed at me, trying to wall off the surge of panic. The nurse pulled a drape over my knees, a thin concession to modesty that did nothing to soften what was coming.

“Spread your legs,” Doctor Becker instructed.

I didn’t move. My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack.

Wilson folded his arms. “Ms. Blackthorne, the exam is mandatory. You can cooperate, or we can administer a paralytic and proceed anyway.”

There was no way I was giving them tacit permission to assault me. “Don’t touch me. You know I don’t need a gynecological exam. This is sexual assault.”