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"I am expected," he ground out, passing his glower from Ivonne's terrified face to the papers rattling in her hand. "Where am I to go?"

Bridget stood up slowly. "We are ready for you, Captain." The demon-dark eyes

Bridget had once heard described as colder than the glaciers on Mount Serenia snapped to

her own and locked. "Really?" he asked sarcastically. "Well, here I am."

Bridget flinched at the harsh tone and swallowed back a nasty reply. She reached for

the papers in Ivonne's trembling hand, then came from behind the desk. "If you will

follow me..." She began, but he cut her off.

"Show me where to go. I can get there on my own!"

Ivonne risked a glance at Bridget's angry face and gave her head a slight warning

shake. This was not one of the troops routinely sent here for reinforcement. This was a

Reaper and the most deadly of his kind at that. Irritating him might well be the last thing

Bridget ever did.

"I'm afraid you can't enter the Be-Mod 9 Unit unless you are accompanied by one of

us, Sir," Bridget said firmly. She felt the Captain's lethal disdain flicker over her for just an instant before he pushed away from the reception desk and headed toward the black

doors marked Behavioral Modification Unit Nine.

"Captain Cree?!" Ivonne called out, glancing nervously at Bridget. "Sir, you can't..."

"I want this crap over with," came the brusque reply. The slap of his palm against the panel as he pushed through into the inner sanctum of the Be-Mod 9 Unit made it clear to

everyone that he had no intention of waiting.

"Son of a bitch!" Bridget hissed. She jerked up his papers and started after him.

"Bridget, please don't anger him," Ivonne whispered. "He's a..."

"I
know
what he is, Ivonne" When Bridget entered the Be-Mod Unit, he was standing just on the other side of the doors, his gaze missing nothing. He glanced at her then away

as though she was little more than a fly buzzing too near him. "What now?" he

demanded.

"You tell me. You seem to think you're in charge here."

His head snapped toward her and a fierce frown formed between his penetrating eyes.

"Don't," was all he said.

Bridget held his stare. "Don't what?" she countered.

That demon gaze held her in its grip, but he didn't answer. If it was his intention to

unnerve her with his silent regard, it didn't work. Bridget stood her ground, staring back

at him, never breaking eye contact. When it became clear to him she was not going to

back down, he seemed to lose interest in the standoff. A tiny movement, a flick of the

muscle, in his right cheek was the only indication that the matter was settled.

"Where to?" he asked, but his voice was less gruff.

She led him to a room, opened the door for him to enter and then followed him inside.

"Please remove your uniform and put on the pajama bottoms we have provided for you."

Cree's fingers were already tugging at his shirt. "How long is this going to take?" he demanded, jerking the tails of his shirt from his trousers.

"I can't say," Bridget replied.

"You won't say," he corrected in a hateful tone then began to unbuckle his belt. "No matter." The last words were hissed through tightly clenched teeth.

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"As soon as you are finished, the doctor will be in to speak to you. She'll know you're

ready for her."

He looked up from unbuttoning his trousers. "How will she know?" When Bridget

pointed to a camera situated at the top of the wall, he snorted. "She's watching me

undress?"

Bridget shrugged with more nonchalance than she felt. "You will be watched the entire

time you are with us, Captain," she told him. "You should be used to that."

His hands stilled as he was about to push the trousers from his hips. "All the time?"

"Yes, Sir."

For a moment he didn't say anything, then he spat out a vulgar word and continued

undressing, ignoring Bridget.

"If you have any questions—" Bridget stopped for he had pushed his trousers down

and was standing before her completely nude.

His hands were on his hips, his legs spread, and he seemed to be relishing the red flush

that spread over Bridget's face. She was staring straight at his crotch as though unable to

tear her attention away.

"Reapers have the same anatomy as human men," he sneered and his words enabled

her to tear her shocked gaze from his nakedness.

"Get dressed, Captain Cree," she managed to say before heading for the door. She felt his gaze raking her and she turned to find his smirk had been replaced by a look that

scared the hell out of her. Freezing with her hand on the entry pad, she half-expected him

to lunge at her, but he turned away, dismissing her with his action, and picked up the

pajama bottoms.

Once outside his cell, Bridget leaned against the wall, feeling sweat dripping down her

cleavage. Her hands were trembling and her head felt light. "I can't do this," she

whispered and closed her eyes. "I can't!"

"Bridie?"

Bridget jumped, her nerves already taut. Dr. Beryla Dean, the Director of Be-Mod 9,

was standing a few feet away. She smiled apologetically. "I didn't mean to give you a

heart attack, dear."

"He has a way of setting your nerves on end, doesn't he?"

"He's a Reaper," Dr. Dean replied, knowing that was explanation enough for her

assistant's nervousness.

"Do you want me to go in with you?"

The Director shook her head. "No need. I can handle him. Just make sure everything is

set for tomorrow."

A worried look passed over Bridget's face. "I hope we're doing the right thing."

Dr. Dean smiled grimly. "He's our only chance, Bridie." She reached out and put a

motherly hand on her assistant's shoulder. "And so are you."

"DO YOU have any questions?" Dr. Beryla Dean, the Director of the Behavioral

Modification Unit asked.

A look of annoyance passed over Cree's face. "Questions about what? Whether I will

survive or not?"

The Director's smile slipped a notch. "That isn't in the equation, Captain. You are in top physical shape."

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"Lucky me." He folded his arms over his massive chest. "What now?"

"They told you that you would be spending the night here, didn't they?"

"
They
didn't tell me anything," he ground out. "When are you going to start the session?"

"Tomorrow morning," Dr. Dean answered. "The chemicals we use must be

administered when you have an empty stomach to keep you from aspirating food into..."

"I have eaten nothing today," he interrupted her. "I am ready now."

Dean shook her head. "I have to abide by the Court's mandate and it states the sessions

must begin tomorrow at oh six hundred hours."

Cree snorted. "We can't have you disobeying the Court's mandate, now, can we,

Madame Director?"

Dr. Dean looked down at his medical records then at him, paused then spoke on a rush

of breath. "And I'm afraid I can not order your nightly medications, because it might

interact with the chemicals I am to administer to you tomorrow."

For the first time, Cree faltered. He seemed to lose some of his bravura. "I am to be

denied the med?"

"I am afraid so, Captain," she replied. "I have spoken with your Controller and he assures me there is no chance you—"

"I cannot sleep without it! Am I expected to stay awake all night worrying about what

torture you've planned for me come morning?"

"I'm sorry," she told him. "I know it will be hard for you, but—"

"You are a gods-be-damned Terran, aren't you?" His eyes were pinpoints of dark hell-fire.

Dr. Dean's chin came up. "I am," she stated. "I was a medical student when I was abducted, but I finished my medical training at the University of Medical Research on

Rysalia Prime if you are concerned about my qualifications."

"I don't give a crap where you trained. You have no idea what going one night without

the chemical will do to me!"

The Director drew in a long, steadying breath. "I have seen the effects of trisomidine

withdrawal, Captain, and I assure you I know the—"

"Get out," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Captain..."

"Get out!" he bellowed and took a threatening step toward her.

Dr. Dean spun around and hurried to the door, barely closing it behind her before it

rattled beneath the pounding of a heavy fist.

"Lock it!" the Director commanded an orderly. She plastered herself against the far wall of the corridor, watching with wide eyes as the pneumatic lock slipped into place,

keeping the Reaper inside. The pounding went on for several seconds then abruptly

stopped. Hurrying to her office, Dr. Dean went to the monitor that looked into Cree's

room and turned it on.

Sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, the Reaper was staring fixedly up

at the camera. He seemed to know she was watching him for he snarled at her, his lips

skinned back from his teeth.

"I'm not so sure you are going to be able to handle him without physical restraints,"

someone said from the door and Dr. Dean looked away from the monitor.

"He'll calm down," Beryla said with more confidence than she felt.

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"You'd better hope so," her visitor cautioned. "You know what his kind is capable of doing."

A shudder ran down the Director's spine and she nodded. "Yes, I do."

"Be careful tomorrow, Beryla. I would suggest you have extra security on hand and

heavy tranquilizer darts at the ready."

"Yes," the Director agreed. "I think that would be wise." She sat down behind her desk and let out a long sigh. "Everything hinges on tomorrow, doesn't it?" When there was no answer to her question, she looked around and found her visitor had left.

Beryla Dean turned back to her monitor and stared at the warrior sitting perfectly still

in the corner of his room. It was only noontime. By the time night fell, he would begin to

feel the symptoms of trisomidine withdrawal and would become agitated, restless and

potentially dangerous.

Not unlike the potent Class Three narcotics of her home world, trisomidine was a very

powerful chemical. The neuroleptic drug controlled the nerve pathways of the brain that

utilized the tissue chemical dopamine for the transmission of nerve impulses. Triso, as it

was commonly known, was both psychologically and physically addictive. Developed to

control severe psychotic behavior, it was routinely given to warriors of the Reaper caste

to prolong the intervals in between Transition cycles.

The Vid-Com clicked on with a pleasant chime then a well-modulated female voice

announced a visitor to the Director's office.

"Enter," Dr. Dean commanded. She looked up to find Ivonne O'Malley standing in the

doorway. "What is it?"

Ivonne came into the room and closed the door behind her. She was pale, her eyes

haunted. "We're having a slight problem with Bridie, Dr. Dean."

The Director sighed. "I know. I've spoken to her." There was a slight twist of irritation on the older woman's face. "Is she carrying on again?"

"She offered fifty thousand credits to anyone who would take her place," answered

Ivonne.

"Oh, for the love of Christ! You'd think we were asking her to sacrifice her virginity on an altar slab!"

Despite her obvious unease, Ivonne smiled. "If it were anyone else but him..." She

shrugged. "She's terrified of him."

"Who isn't?" Beryla drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking then shrugged

fatalistically. "It's too late to change recipients now." Her expression hardened. "She'll just have to understand that."

"Will you tell her or do you want me to?"

The Director swore beneath her breath. "I'll tell her." She got up from her desk, glanced at the monitor then instructed Ivonne to stay and monitor their patient. "If anything

drastic changes with Cree, call me immediately."

Ivonne settled into the Director's chair. She focused on the monitor and felt a chill go

down her spine. The Reaper was pacing his cell, stopping now and then to glare

murderously at the camera. The sound wasn't on so she leaned forward and flipped on the

volume, but there wasn't anything to hear save Kamerone Cree's angry breath.

It was easy to see why the Reapers were so feared she thought as she watched him

pace. He posed a threat although he was secured in a Maximum Four holding cell. The

fury etched across his broad face only served to underline the tenseness of his powerful

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body. As he moved, there was a lethal grace Ivonne knew would be all stealth and

unrelenting purpose when needed. When he stopped and glared intently at the camera,

she imagined he could see right through the instrument and into her own troubled gaze.

Reapers were born psychic, enhanced with the keen instincts of a predatory beast. Often

able to read minds, they posed a very real threat to their human counterparts when they

used that preternatural talent. Almost nothing could be kept secret from them.