The next meeting with the lab heads was a few weeks after the banquet and honestly I'd thought Nine would just sit there quietly.
Maybe rest his chin on my shoulder like he usually did when he was overwhelmed, maybe play with the hem of my sleeve while the rest of us talked about Project WRAITH resource allocations and hybrid training protocols.
I hadn't expected this.
"Your data is wrong," Nine said bluntly, his voice perfectly calm. "You used averages pulled from the southern unit, where the medication dosages were miscalculated for months. That's not representative of baseline."
The room went still. Every head at the table turned to look at him—and then slowly turned to look at me.
I didn't flinch.
Nyx, on the other hand, was practically howling with glee. Our mate. So smart. So sharp. Look at their stupid faces.
"I—" one of the medical directors stammered. "We weren't—how do you even know that?"
"I read the reports," Nine said simply, then shifted on the chair beside me and slid the tablet across the table. "The supplement adjustments here were noted by three different technicians. You just didn't bother to correlate the impact on output data."
He was wearing one of the looser tunics I'd had made for him, sleeves rolled up, collar askew.
"You're not even—" the director began again.
"He's right," I cut in, narrowing my gaze at the man. "And if you'd done your job properly, you would've caught that too."
Nine's fingers brushed mine beneath the table. Not needing anything. Just touching.
Another boss tried to recover the conversation, pivoting to the next agenda item—a discussion about which units to decommission. "We're still deciding on which hybrids to pull out from the active roster. Obviously the ones showing resistance should be—"
"Should be what?" Nine asked, his voice too mild to be mistaken for truly calm. "Terminated? Disposed of? Dissected for being inconvenient?"
I turned my head slowly to look at him.
He was trembling a little, but his eyes were steady. Fierce.
Nyx was practically vibrating. He's incredible, she whispered.
I was inclined to agree.
The room shifted, uncomfortable.
And that's when he did it—when the stress and the rising anger and all the staring finally hit his threshold.
He stood up, walked around the side of the table with quiet purpose, and without a single word, climbed into my lap and curled himself there like he belonged.
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
Because he did. He did belong there—but the sheer casualness of it, the complete disregard for what anyone else in the room thought, the way he nuzzled into my throat and took a deep breath—
"You were saying?" I asked the stunned council flatly, wrapping one arm around his waist.
"You—he—this is a serious meeting," someone muttered.
"He's being serious," I replied. "You're the ones who were pretending not to know how dire things are."
Nine shifted slightly, then lifted his head. "I don't care if it makes you uncomfortable. You were fine enough being comfortable when I was kept in a box."
I stared at the man he was addressing, and the man had the sense to look away.
I stroked Nine's back gently, feeling his heartbeat against my chest. He'd come so far. So fast. And maybe I had underestimated him. Not in a bad way. Just—I'd thought he would need more time. That I'd have to carry him for longer.
But he was already walking. Already biting.
Already burning.
And they were going to have to learn.
"This is how things are now," I said coldly. "If you can't handle him speaking, then you're not fit to be in this room."
No one said a word after that.