Page 214 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

Sira lifts her head from the neighboring platform. “He is correct.”

Merrow turns on her. “Specialist Sira-Vel, you are in shock.”

“Yes,” she says. “That does not make me wrong.”

Brakk raises one hand. “I am also in shock, and I would like to add that Merrow has been useless since landing.”

Merrow’s face reddens. “This is absurd.”

“No,” I say. “Absurd is learning the universe began as experimental recreation and still having to deal with middle management before anyone gets stitches.”

The words are out.

Silence hits the room.

Ghar’s eyes snap to mine.

Sira goes still.

Brakk whispers, “Anita.”

Merrow stares. “What did you just say?”

My pulse slams against my throat.

Idiot. Brilliant, exhausted, traumatized idiot.

The gray-haired officer takes one slow step closer. “Doctoral Candidate Prentiss, explain.”

This is the moment.

Not the archive chamber. Not Rolaev ’s key. Not the shard selecting what should survive. This quiet, sterile room with three officials and a dozen recording devices is the moment where truth becomes either weapon, burden, or lie.

I look at Ghar.

His gaze holds mine, not instructing, not commanding. He is hurt badly enough that his hands tremble against the platform edge. He is also fully present with me. Whatever I choose, he will not let me confuse solitude with responsibility.

I breathe in antiseptic, lavender, blood, and smoke that only exists in memory.

Then I lie.

Strategically.

Precisely.

With my whole soul protesting and my judgment standing over it with a knife.

“The archive contained evidence of a pre-Precursor civilization,” I say. “Possibly a culture the Precursors encountered and mythologized. The data includes cosmological models that are dangerous when misinterpreted, including experimental frameworks that could destabilize several major religious traditions if released without context.”

Merrow’s eyes narrow. “That is not what you said.”

“It is exactly what I said in panic, Liaison Merrow, after being chased through a collapsing planet by extremists with heavy weapons.”

The gray-haired officer studies me. “Are you claiming the archive did not contain direct origin records?”

I hold her gaze.

My heartbeat tries to betray me. My palms sweat inside my gloves. Somewhere in the shard case, the preserved fragments feel cold against my chest.