Chapter 8 · Wrong Kind of Rescue

"Get your claws off me, you freak!"

Vera’s voice cracked, but she didn't pull away. She was pinned against the cold, damp concrete of the corridor, my bulk blocking out the dim overhead lights. My claws weren't digging in—not yet—but they were millimeters from her tactical gear, trembling with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"Shut up," I rasped. The sound was a wet, grating noise, like gravel sliding down a throat full of blood. "We're not alone."

"I can handle a few stray stitch-beasts," she snapped, though her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard I could feel it through her chest plate. She tried to shove me back, her palms hitting my chest. It was like pushing against a brick wall made of scarred muscle and grafted plating.

I didn't budge. I leaned closer, my snout inches from her ear. I could smell the ozone of her rifle, the sharp scent of gunpowder, and something underneath—something warm and human that made my borrowed instincts scream.

"Not strays," I whispered. "Farm guards. And they don't take prisoners."

She froze. The defiance in her eyes flickered, replaced by a sharp, calculating glint.