THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM
Only then did Damian follow, flooding him with heat, excess leaking down Alex’s thighs in glowing trails.
They stayed joined for long moments, breathing hard, the child humming contentedly between them.
But the trap was already closing.
The warehouse doors exploded inward.
Hybrids poured in—dozens, coordinated, eyes glowing solid blue. At their center walked a figure that made Alex’s blood run cold.
The Insider.
Not Tunde. Not Camila. Not the Matriarch.
It was the redemption trap they had walked into blindly.
The figure stepped into the light—tall, cloaked, face hidden until the hood fell back.