Page 45 of Protector

As if roused by his thoughts, she snaps her head toward him and says, “You will not say a word to anyone about the meeting today, nor what was discussed. That’s an order.”

His chip sparks with the command, and he bares his teeth at the surge of anger that follows on its heels. Taking her orders is becoming harder by the fucking hour—it grates against his alpha urges flaring hotly with the need to protect her.

“If asked, a command will keep you from being forced to answer. Tell them instead that it was a routine debriefing by a mid-level officer. Lieutenant Smith, if pressed for a name. I told him what happened, you told him what happened, the end.”

He stares at her for two long seconds. Did she just… give an explanation for an order?

She seems to realize the preposterousness too. Cheeks ever so faintly pink, she turns away and undoes her seatbelt without so much as another glance in his direction.

The debriefing is clearly farfrom General Thompson’s mind when he finally returns home several hours after dinner.

The oil paintings on the sitting room walls rattle with the force of the front door slamming.

AX2 jerks his head toward the sound, muscles tensing, but as he swings around to block the French doors leading into the room, Mrs. Thompson says, “It’s just Willy, dear.” She puts down her embroidery on the arm of her chair and gets up. “Sounds like a bad day at work.”

AX2 returns to his position next to the door, wrists clasped behind his back, allowing he older woman to pass.

On the sofa, her daughter doesn’t take her eyes off her book. He’d think her engrossed in the text if not for the fact she hasn’t flipped a page for hours.

He focuses on the soft murmurs from the hallways. The deeper rumble is indeed General Thompson, complaining about incompetent engineers. Mrs. Thompson, already soft-spoken, has further gentled her voice as she tells him she’s missed him. Asks him if he’s eaten.

Longing pangs sharply in AX2’s gut at the fresh memory of his own mate making him sandwiches, followed by the sensation of her hands sliding over his body with precise movements when she used to check him over after coming out of stasis.

He forces it down, disgusted with himself. A bit of food doesn’t change what she is. Hismatewill never greet him with soft words, nor—heat touches his cheeks at the unexpected whisper in the hallway—suggestions that shesuck him better.

The general’s irritated rumble turns to a low chuckle. He promises he’ll take her up on herkind offerlater, then makes his way to the sitting room, wife in tow.

“Addie, darling, did your debriefing go all right? I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.” General Thompson, still in uniform and with a leather satchel over one shoulder, pauses just past the threshold, brushing a hand over his mate’s shoulder as she passes him to return to her chair.

“I understand—duty comes first,” his daughter replies, glancing at him before returning her gaze to her book. “It went fine. Just a regular debriefing.”

“Hmm.” He looks at her for a moment longer, opens his mouth as if to say more, but thinks better of it. Turning his focus to AX2, he rumbles, “It’s been a day, and I need a drink. Come with me.”

TWENTY-TWO

AX2

AX2’s chip sparks, and he turns to follow the elder alpha. Out the corner of his eye, the doctor jerks her head toward them, eyes widening. “Wait?—”

“I’m just taking your mate to the parlor, darling. He’ll be close. You’re safe.” The general gives her a gentle look before he pushes through the French doors, leading the way.

She doesn’t protest again, but the tightness in their bond as AX2 exits the room makes him wish she would. He’s as reluctant to put doors between her as she is to lose sight of him, but an order is an order. Rubbing at his chest to soothe the barbed wire hooked there, he wonders how far he could be commanded to go before that bond would either anchor his feet in place or shred him apart from the inside.

General Thompson leads him through another set of French doors on the other side of the hallways, these carved from wood. Behind them is a room paneled in the same dark wood and dominated by a large, unlit fireplace. Tufted leather armchairs are angled around a coffee table, and in the corner, a gilded bar cart holds several bottles of amber liquor.

“Some days, I regret spending my life climbing the ranks,” General Thompson rumbles as he drops his satchel by one of the chairs and makes his way to the bar cart. “Once you hit one-star, it seems our entire Defense Department would collapse at the meresthintof trouble, unless you personally handhold every idiot below you.”

AX2 doesn’t respond, doesn’t know if he’s expected to, but the general doesn’t seem to notice. He fills two etched crystal glasses with liquor and then flips the lid open on a wooden box on the mantel. “Cigar?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Suit yourself.” General Thompson cuts the end of a cigar, places the filled glasses on each side of the table, and flops down into a chair. When he lights the cigar and takes a swig of his drink, his eyelids close with pleasure.“Ahh. That hits the spot.”

AX2 stays quiet, unsure what is expected of him.

This time the older alpha notices his silence. He opens his eyes and nods at AX2. “Sit down, son.”

AX2 obeys, perching straight-spined on the edge of the chair in front of the untouched glass.

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