Page 202 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

She has driven both hands deeper into the control spine. Silver and black light climb her arms, burning through fur and scar tissue. The route stabilizes, but the chamber behind her is collapsing in a widening ring. She looks at the sealed archive projection one last time, and I see it plainly then.

Her certainty is broken.

Not gone.

Broken things can still cut.

But it is no longer seamless enough to become doctrine without pain.

“Rolaev !” Sira calls. “Come!”

Rolaev ’s eyes flick toward us.

For one second, I think she might.

Then a section of the upper wall crashes between us, throwing dust and white sparks into the air. When the glare clears, she is gone from view, hidden behind collapse, control light, and the ruin of her own choices.

“Anita!” Ghar pulls me toward the arch. “Move!”

I move.

We dive through the archway as the secondary preservation nexus implodes behind us.

The escape route beyond is a narrow maintenance spine lined with dead conduits, emergency amber glow, and frost that forms and evaporates on the walls in alternating breaths. The floor slants at an impossible angle, then corrects itself under Brakk’s anchor. Far ahead, I see a faint rectangle of harsh white light.

Launch cradle.

Last surviving shuttle route.

Behind us, Nareth-Kul screams again.

This time the scream does not stop.

The whole planet shudders beneath our feet, and I understand with a sick, animal certainty that the rogue world is not merely falling apart around the ruins. The ruins have been part of what held it together, folded through its dead crust like black sutures. Now those sutures are tearing out.

Brakk looks back, eyes huge. “Everyone faster!”

“Is the shuttle intact?” I shout.

“If it isn’t, I am going to become extremely difficult to console!”

Sira’s voice comes thin but steady. “The planet’s gravitational envelope is fluctuating.”

“Less fancy!” Brakk barks.

“Escape becomes impossible soon.”

“Thank you! Horrible, but clear!”

Ghar’s grip tightens on mine. His breathing is rougher. Blood runs down his side.

“You are slowing,” I say.

“I am fine.”

“You are lying in a very traditional masculine dialect.”

“That sentence was complicated.”