They called it a safehouse.
It felt more like a butcher's backroom.
No windows. No warmth. Just concrete floors stained with old filth, and the lingering stench of bleach, sweat, and ammonia. The kind of place that chewed people up and spat them out bone-white.
We weren't here long. Just a rest. A reset. Time to let the hybrids piss in the corner and get shoved back into crates like obedient livestock.
They opened the truck doors with a clang and started dragging them out one by one. No names. No care. Just cages and chains.
I stood off to the side, arms crossed tightly, eyes scanning the chaos.
Then I saw him.
Nine's crate was wheeled out with less ceremony than I expected. For all the boss's obsession with his "gift," the workers handling him had the same careless touch as with the others.
They popped the locks and dragged the door open with a screech.
Nine blinked slowly at the light, unmoving at first. His wrists were cuffed in front of him. A collar still hugged his neck—thick, black, heavy. When they clipped a leash to it, he flinched like the metal burned.
"Come on, pretty boy," one of them muttered, yanking hard.
The leash snapped taut, and Nine choked.
His knees hit the ground.
He coughed, breath catching in wet stutters as his thin body curled forward, shoulder blades sharp under the thin shift he wore.
Something cracked in me.
"Stop," I said sharply, stepping forward. My voice didn't shake. "You'll bruise his throat."
The handler looked up, annoyed. "He's got to move."
"He will." I took another step. "But not if you damage him."
The man narrowed his eyes. "Orders are to move the hybrids—"
"And mine are to make sure this one is perfect," I snapped, eyes locked on the leash. "The Supreme Leader doesn't want his new pet with crushed vocal cords. Or bloodshot eyes. You want to be the one who explains that?"
That gave him pause.
I held out my hand.
"Give me the leash. I'll walk him."
A beat.
Then he shoved the leash into my palm with a muttered curse and walked away.
I didn't thank him.
I knelt.
Nine was still coughing lightly, head bowed, the delicate line of his throat red where the collar had dug in. His lashes were wet, his mouth parted slightly like he was trying to catch his breath without making a sound.
Nyx growled softly in my chest, low and furious.
"It's okay," I whispered, fingers brushing lightly at the red marks. "I've got you."
He didn't speak. He just leaned ever so slightly into my touch, like a flower bending toward light.
"Up we go, sweetheart," I murmured, rising to my feet and gently guiding him with the leash. "Just a short walk. Then you can rest again."
He stood slowly, legs shaking a bit from disuse and exhaustion. I kept my steps slow. Measured. Careful.
As we started walking, I heard it—a sudden, wet thud. Then another. And another.
I turned my head.
One of the handlers had yanked a hybrid too slow to obey out of his crate and was now kicking him repeatedly in the side as he lay curled up, trying to shield his stomach.
The sound echoed like meat slapping pavement. Brutal. Ugly.
The hybrid didn't even scream. Just whimpered.
And for a second—I hated this—I felt a flicker of relief.
It wasn't Nine.
It wasn't my mate being broken under someone else's boot.
Guilt pooled in my throat like oil, thick and choking. But I didn't look away.
Because that was what this place did.
It made you grateful for survival, even when someone else was bleeding for it.
Nine walked beside me silently, head bowed, but close.
I squeezed the leash gently.
That had to be enough.
For now.
Because that was all I could protect.