Page 9 of Brox Boar

He shrugs my hand off but grunts in agreement.

We reach the metal-paneled door that marks the line of Morales’ lab. I punch the code, slam my palm on the bar, and throw the door open.

Dr. Morales looks up from her computer.

She sits behind her desk in that stark office that always reminds me of a medical examiner’s room more than a workplace: white walls, metal cabinets, no personal touches. Every file stacked in exact alignment. Every instrument in perfect order.

Her hair is pulled back into a low bun, neat, her eyes calmly observing us. Not one strand out of place. She doesn’t even flinch at the way Rio storms through behind me, rage vibrating off him.

“Brox. Rio.” Her voice is smooth. “What can I do for you?”

Rio’s hand lifts. The gun points directly at her face. “Where is Lana?”

She doesn’t move. Her gaze cuts to the weapon, then returns to Rio’s eyes.

I step between them, my palm closing around the barrel and pushing it off line. My movement is not gentle. I put my weight into it, forcing his aim toward the wall.

“Thirty seconds,” I remind him, meeting him eye to eye. “You agreed.”

His chest heaves. His teeth grind. The muscle in his jaw jumps so hard I hear it.

I turn my head to Morales. “Well? Where is she?”

“I see you checked the cameras,” she replies, fingers still resting on her keyboard. “So you already know I took her downstairs.”

“You drugged her.” The words taste bitter. “Explain. Now.”

“I administered a sedative,” Morales corrects. “She was tense, distressed. I judged it more humane to relax her before drawing the necessary blood samples.”

Rio yanks the gun away from my hand, steps around me again. The muzzle snaps back toward her forehead.

“You ‘judged’?” he spits. “Who gave you that authority?”

“You did,” she states. “When you hired me to pursue solutions that serve your interests. Lana is integral to that.”

“She did not consent to being knocked out and dragged into your lab,” I say. My voice drops even lower. “You crossed a line.”

Morales’ lips press together briefly, then flatten in that almost-smile she favors. It never reaches her eyes.

“First, we never get consent from the pets. Or have you forgotten your own rules? Second, I had limited time,” she explains, tone so reasonable it grates. “You wanted a girl that functions outside lab conditions. You wanted results. And I am close to a breakthrough. Her blood markers are… promising. In order to confirm my hypotheses, I needed an undisturbed sample at specific intervals, and she was–”

Rio’s snarl rips through the room. “Say ‘difficult’ and I blow your brains out on that wall.”

Our thirty seconds are nearly gone. My thumb rests on the back of his wrist, a reminder, and a threat.

Morales’ gaze flicks to my hand. Her eyes narrow, just a fraction. She evaluates everything. Constantly. There is no off switch in that brain.

“She was afraid,” she amends. “Understandably. Her experience, um, from the other day induced a strong reaction. I attempted to explain, to reassure her. I calculated the sedative would allow me to complete the bloodwork quickly and return her before she woke.”

“And yet,” I say, “she is not upstairs.”

Morales exhales. Not a sigh. Too controlled.

“Unfortunately, matters did not go according to plan. She showed higher sensitivity to the dose than expected. When she regained consciousness, she was disoriented. Agitated. I tried to speak to her, to apologize for distressing her, but she panicked.”

“You believe this freak?” Rio turns to me, ready to pull that trigger.

Morales continues as though he hasn’t spoken. “She pulled away from me. Pushed past my assistant. Ignored every attempt to calm her. She bolted for the staircase.”