Not rushed.
Certain.
“Lani.”
He appears in the kitchen doorway, and the first thing I notice is the smell of alcohol beneath his usual cologne. Not sloppy drunk. Not staggering.
Controlled, but unraveling.
His gaze sweeps the room once, sharp and assessing.
Then it lands on me.
For a moment, something flickers in his expression that looks almost like relief.
Then he inhales.
The relief vanishes.
His jaw tightens.
“You’ve presented.”
It’s not a question. But my silence confirms it anyway. His lip curls with disgust.
He steps further inside, and the air between us feels charged and wrong.
“You think I wouldn’t be notified the moment your levels spiked?”
The words land like a physical blow.
My stomach drops.
“You’ve been monitoring me?” I whisper. “Even with me gone?”
His expression shifts, not to guilt, but to irritation.
“Of course I have,” he says flatly. “Do you think I invested two decades into research without safeguards?”
Research.
The word turns my blood cold.
“You were my breakthrough,” he continues, voice steady despite the alcohol threaded through it. “My proof of concept. The first viable candidate for permanent reclassification.”
I stare at him, the room tilting slightly.
“You drugged me,” I say. “Constantly. Without my consent and against my will.”
“I stabilised you.”
“You experimented on me.”
His eyes flash. “I protected you.”
My scent spikes again, fear bleeding into the air so thick it almost chokes me.
“You were never meant to present,” he continues, stepping closer. “Suppressants are too transitional. I needed long-term genomic alteration. Do you understand what that would have meant?”