Chapter 12: Borrowed Priorities

- Wendy

I stood at the window of our temporary apartment, watching the sun sink behind the mountains. The visiting researcher's quarters weren't exactly homey: neutral beige walls, functional furniture that prioritized durability over comfort, and that faint antiseptic smell that permeated all of Echelon's wings. But the view was spectacular. Fiery oranges and deep purples painted the sky over the pine trees as daylight retreated, casting long shadows across the campus below.

What a strange day it had been. The thought floated through my mind with an odd detachment, as though I were commenting on unusual cloud formations rather than the complete upheaval of human society. I should be terrified, outraged, devastated—any number of appropriate emotions for what had happened. Instead, I felt this peculiar calm, this acceptance that seemed to hover just at the edge of my consciousness. I recognized its abnormality, could see it intellectually, but couldn't quite feel the wrongness of it. The most pressing emotion was a low-grade anxiety about being separated from Cedric. He was just down the hall in his own assigned quarters, but even that short distance felt uncomfortable, like a rubber band stretched too far.

The door opened behind me, and I turned to see Gabriel entering. My husband, my brilliant, kind husband whom I'd loved for over a decade, looked utterly destroyed. His shoulders slumped forward as though carrying an invisible weight. The lines around his eyes had deepened, and his normally neat hair stuck up at odd angles where he'd been running his hands through it. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie long abandoned. I noted all these details with clinical precision, understanding that I should feel concerned, should rush to comfort him. And I did feel concern, in a distant, theoretical way, like recognizing the correct answer on a test without feeling any emotional connection to it.

He stopped just inside the doorway, staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher, part longing, part grief, part uncertainty. The realization that he was still processing what had happened between Cedric and me flickered through my mind. Of course he was. How could he not be? And suddenly I remembered the instruction Cedric had given me on the way to Echelon: "Take care of Gabriel. He's your husband, and he needs you now more than ever."

This was my mission now, and I would excel at it. I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around him, feeling him stiffen momentarily before melting into the embrace. "You look exhausted," I said, guiding him to the small sofa. "Sit down. Have you eaten anything today?"

Gabriel allowed himself to be led, his body stiff at first, then gradually melting into my embrace as we settled onto the couch. He leaned his head against my shoulder, but I could feel the reservation in his posture, the careful way he held himself slightly apart even as he sought comfort.

"I, uh…" he began, then cleared his throat. "I got all of my claimed women settled in the larger suite down the corridor." His voice was tight, uncomfortable. He glanced at me, then quickly away, as though expecting anger or hurt.

I felt neither. Instead, I experienced a strange sense of rightness about the situation. Of course Gabriel had claimed women, it was necessary, practical. They belonged to him now, just as I belonged to Cedric. The thought should have horrified me, should have sparked jealousy or outrage, but instead it felt as natural as breathing. The only reason I knew it should bother me was because Cedric believed it was wrong, and what mattered to him mattered to me.

"You did what you had to do," I said, stroking his hair gently. "Ramona needed those scientists, and you protected them from being claimed by others who might have… misused them." I chose my words carefully, aware that my true feelings, my complete acceptance of the new order, would only distress him further. I wouldn't tell him how utterly normal it would be for me if he suddenly blurted out that he was forming a harem with these women and might spend his nights with them instead of me. The thought didn't hurt; it would in fact be a relief to know that they might ease his loneliness, that he would feel less needy for my attention so I could focus more on Cedric. Be what I knew the kind man had always secretly wanted me to be: HIS lover.

Gabriel's eyes filled with tears, and they spilled over, tracking down his cheeks. I wiped them away with my thumb, making appropriate soothing noises while feeling strangely removed from the moment. I was performing the role of the concerned wife perfectly, I thought, I hoped, while my mind circled back to Cedric like a compass finding north. Was he comfortable in his room? Did he need anything? Should I check on him after Gabriel fell asleep? No, he told me to take care of my husband. He would be displeased if I abandoned that responsibility, no matter how strong the impulse. He didn't want me, not like this, not yet. It was the wrong context.

"Do you…" Gabriel's voice broke, and he swallowed hard before continuing. "Do you still love me?" The question came out small and terrified.

"Of course I do," I answered immediately—perhaps too quickly. I paused, considering it. I did love Gabriel, that much was true. I loved him exactly as much as I always had. But it was like comparing a candle to the sun; both gave light, but one overwhelmed the other so completely that the flame of the candle did not even register against it. The flame of my love for Gabriel was burning just as brightly as ever, but now, next to the blazing intensity of my devotion for Cedric, it felt insignificant, irrelevant, a mere flicker in the midst of a beautiful inferno.

I looked at Gabriel's tear-stained face and suddenly realized what might help him, what might help us both. Sex had always been a point of tension between us; my drive never quite matched his, and in the last few years, with the stress of work and life, intimacy had become even more infrequent. How many times had he gently complained, tried to initiate only to be met with excuses about exhaustion or early mornings? Perhaps this was exactly what he needed, what we both needed: for him to relax and for me to be the wife Cedric wanted me to be.

The thought wasn't particularly arousing. I felt a flicker of desire, but it was distant. My body knew how to respond to Gabriel, knew the patterns of our lovemaking, but my mind kept circling back to Cedric. For a moment, I hesitated. Giving myself to another man felt… wrong somehow, like a betrayal. But then I remembered Cedric's words. This was part of my mission, and that realization sent a thrill through me. Tot sexual excitement, but the satisfaction of fulfilling my purpose, of playing my role in this strange new adventure that Cedric and I were sharing.

"You know what might help you relax?" I whispered, sliding my hand up his chest. I still briefly wondered if it would hurt Cedric to know I was intimate with Gabriel. Had it hurt him before, all those years of our marriage, knowing I shared Gabriel's bed? Poor man, carrying that burden silently. But this was different now. This wasn't betrayal but mission, wasn't pleasure but purpose.

Gabriel looked startled, then uncertain. "Wendy, I don't know if that's—"

I silenced him with a kiss, gentle at first, then deepening as I felt his resistance waver. His hands remained at his sides for several long moments before finally, hesitantly, coming to rest on my hips. I could feel the conflict in him, the ethical man who knew something was wrong with my behavior battling with the exhausted husband who desperately needed comfort, connection, and the illusion of normalcy.

"Let me take care of you," I murmured against his lips, unbuttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency. I knew exactly how to touch him, where to kiss him, how to elicit those small gasps that indicated pleasure. I'd been his wife for years; I knew his body as well as my own. As I moved my lips down his neck, I focused intently on his reactions, cataloging them with a detached precision that would have been foreign to our lovemaking before. I was performing, in a way, not falsely, but with a deliberate attention to detail that came from seeing this as a task to excel at rather than a mutual expression of desire.

His hands grew bolder as his resistance crumbled, sliding under my blouse, tracing familiar paths along my skin. I arched into his touch, a response so ingrained it felt automatic. I moaned at the right moments, whispered the things I knew he liked to hear, all while maintaining that strange dual awareness: I was Wendy, Gabriel's loving wife, and I was also Cedric's devoted servant, fulfilling his instructions to perfection.

"Are you sure?" Gabriel whispered, his voice rough with emotion and growing desire. His eyes searched mine, perhaps looking for some sign that I wasn't myself, that this passion was manufactured.

"I've never been more sure," I replied, and it wasn't entirely a lie. I was certain this was what I should be doing, what Cedric would want me to do. I guided Gabriel's hand to the zipper of my skirt, encouraging him without words. "I want to make you feel good. I want to be here for you."

The conflict in his eyes didn't fully disappear, but it receded behind a veil of need and exhaustion. His fingers fumbled with my zipper, and I helped him, sliding the skirt down my legs while maintaining eye contact. I knew exactly how to move, how to touch, how to be the Wendy he remembered and needed right now. And if my motivation had shifted from desire to duty, from passion to purpose, well, that was my secret to keep.

I grew bolder, my movements precise and practiced as I guided Gabriel toward the bed. We undressed each other with the familiar choreography of long-married couples, my fingers working his belt buckle while his hands slipped beneath my blouse, unhooking my bra with practiced ease. I noticed how his eyes lingered on my body, drinking me in with a mixture of desire and uncertainty that tugged at something deep inside me, not quite guilt, but awareness of the strange duplicity of the moment.

"Lie back," I whispered, gently pushing him onto the mattress. He complied, his eyes never leaving mine, searching for something—reassurance, perhaps, or some sign that I was still the woman he married. I wasn't, but in all the ways that mattered to him right now, I would be, and I was determined to prove it.

I wrapped my hand around his hardening cock, stroking him with the perfect pressure I knew he preferred, not too firm at first, gradually increasing as his breathing quickened. I calculated each movement, each twist of my wrist, each breathy moan I released. When I lowered my head to take him into my mouth, I maintained the mental checklist of what Gabriel enjoyed: swirling my tongue around the head, taking him deeper but not too deep, using my hand in tandem with my mouth.

I didn't linger too long with the oral attention. Just enough to show enthusiasm without raising suspicion. Before The Source, before Cedric, I'd never particularly enjoyed giving oral sex, though I'd indulge Gabriel on special occasions or when I felt particularly generous. Now, I realized with a strange detachment, I could happily spend hours pleasuring him this way if Cedric had instructed me to do so. I could let Gabriel take me in ways I'd always refused: anal sex, which I'd adamantly rejected despite his occasional hints, or inviting his claimed women to join us. The thought didn't repulse me; it simply existed as a possibility, a potential service I could render. But I knew such eagerness would only highlight how fundamentally I'd changed, so I carefully modulated my responses, walking the tightrope between the wife he knew and the devoted servant I'd become.

"I want to feel you inside me," I murmured, straddling his hips and guiding him into me. I was wet enough, my body responding to the physical stimulation even as my mind remained focused on performance rather than pleasure. I rode him slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, my hands braced on his chest. I moaned when appropriate, gasped when he hit particularly sensitive spots, all while maintaining that strange dual consciousness: present in the physical act while emotionally detached, observing myself pleasing my husband as though watching from a distance.

I turned around, presenting my back to him as I continued to ride him. This position had always been one of his favorites. He loved watching my ass move as I took him, loved the access it gave him to my chest when he sat up. It was familiar territory, something we'd done countless times, nothing that would signal to him that anything had changed.

Gabriel leaned forward, his chest pressed against my back, his hands reaching around to cup my breasts. His fingers found my nipples, pinching them just hard enough to make me gasp. I heard a strange sound, a soft, choked noise, and realized with a start that he was crying even as he thrust into me with increasing ****. For a moment, I considered stopping, turning around to comfort him, to ask what was wrong, but his movements became more urgent, his grip on my hips tightening as he drove himself deeper.

"God, Wendy," he groaned, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you so much."

I reached back to touch his face, feeling the wetness of tears on his cheeks. "I love you too," I whispered, and it didn't feel like a lie. I did love him. It was just that love now existed in a different context, a smaller room in a house where Cedric occupied the master suite.

His rhythm faltered, then quickened, and I felt him stiffen beneath me, inside me, as he came with a shuddering groan. I pretended to follow shortly after, completing the illusion that nothing had changed between us.

We collapsed together onto the bed, his arms wrapping around me as we caught our breath. I turned to face him, nestling against his chest, stroking his hair the way I always had after we made love. His expression remained troubled despite the physical release, anxiety lurking behind the post-coital haze in his eyes.

"Nothing has changed," I whispered, kissing his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. "I'm still me. I still love you, Gabriel. I always will." The words were true in their way: I did love him, with the same affection I'd always had. But they were also the greatest lie I'd ever told him. Everything had changed.

We lay in silence for a while, my head on Gabriel's chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow. The room had grown dark, the last of the sunset fading to deep blue outside the window. I felt a strange contentment. Mission accomplished, husband comforted. But the peace was short-lived.

Gabriel groaned suddenly, the sound vibrating through his chest. He shifted away from me, propping himself up on one elbow to look at my face. His eyes were haunted, searching.

"Did Cedric tell you to do this?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Did he tell you to fuck me?"

The question hit me like a slap. "What? No!" I sat up, pulling the sheet around me instinctively. "Gabriel, how could you think that?"

It wasn't exactly a lie. Cedric hadn't specifically instructed me to have sex with Gabriel. He'd told me to take care of him, to be there for him. Sex was my own interpretation of those instructions, my own solution to the problem of Gabriel's distress.

Gabriel threw back the covers and stood, pacing naked across the small room, running his hands through his already disheveled hair. "It's not real," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "You're gone. I know you're gone. I've seen it, in all of them." He gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the corridor where his claimed women were housed. "The way they look at me now, the way they only care about what I want." He turned to me, his expression raw with pain. "And I know that's how you are with Cedric now. You're not having sex with me because you want me. You're doing it because somehow, in some way, it's what Cedric wants."

I opened my mouth, then closed it again, at a loss. What could I say? He was right. The old Wendy, the woman I'd been before The Source, before Cedric, would have been honest even when the truth hurt. But admitting the truth now would conflict with Cedric's instructions to take care of Gabriel, to be there for him. How could I be there for him if I confirmed his worst fears?

Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over before I could stop them. Not because of Gabriel's distress or his distrust, though I registered those things intellectually, but because I was failing at my task. I couldn't see a path forward, couldn't reconcile who I was supposed to be with how I was supposed to care for Gabriel. The conflict felt insurmountable, and the thought of disappointing Cedric was unbearable.

Gabriel's expression softened as he watched me cry. He approached the bed cautiously, sitting on the edge. "Hey," he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—" He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I'm just so fucking confused, Wendy. Everything's upside down, and I don't know what's real anymore."

I leaned into his touch, relieved that he'd misinterpreted my tears as genuine emotion for him. "It's okay," I whispered, taking his hand in mine. "We're all confused. None of us knows how to navigate this new world."

"I just want my wife back," he said, his voice small.

I pulled him close, stroking his hair. "I'm here. And you'll get your old wife back," I assured him. "Soon we'll figure this out. Ramona and the others will find a way to free all the women. To free me." The words were right, comforting, exactly what he needed to hear, but as they left my lips, a wave of unease washed through me. The very idea of being "freed" from my devotion to Cedric felt wrong, felt like a violation of something fundamental. My brain rejected the concept, couldn't process how I could stop serving Cedric's desires when serving him was now the core of my existence.

A new conflict emerged in my mind: Cedric wanted women freed, wanted me freed, I knew that without a doubt. But if I were freed, I couldn't serve him. And I had to serve him. The contradiction looped in my mind, impossible to resolve.

"Do you really think that's possible?" Gabriel asked, hope and doubt warring in his voice.

"Of course," I said with more confidence than I felt. "The greatest minds at Echelon are working on it right now. And when they succeed, I'll be myself again." I smiled, ignoring the hollow feeling those words created. "Completely myself."

Gabriel nodded, wanting so desperately to believe me that he overlooked the strain in my smile, the conflict behind my eyes. He pulled me back down to the bed, wrapping his arms around me as though he could physically keep me from slipping away.

"I love you," he whispered into my hair. "The real you. And I'll do whatever it takes to get you back."

I closed my eyes, pressing closer to him. "I know you will," I said softly, hoping he'd fail.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted us, followed by a deep voice calling out, "Ritter? It's Edward. I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a situation brewing that needs your attention."

Gabriel grunted, his momentary peace shattered. "It never ends," he muttered, disentangling himself from me with obvious ****. He fumbled for his clothes in the dim room, pulling on his pants and shirt with quick, efficient movements. I watched him from the bed, the sheet pulled up to my chest, feeling strangely detached from the urgency of the moment. My mission to comfort Gabriel had been interrupted, but perhaps this was for the best: a reprieve from the impossible contradictions swirling in my mind.

"Just a minute," he called, fastening his belt as he moved toward the door. He glanced back at me, making sure I was covered by the sheets before opening the door.

Edward Barrett stood in the hallway, his imposing frame filling the doorway. His eyes flickered briefly to Gabriel's misaligned buttons and hastily fastened belt, before glancing in my direction for less than a second. but his expression remained professionally neutral.

"My team, what's left of it, has finished evacuating everyone who wasn't claimed or ready to help," Edward reported, his voice low and controlled. "We've secured the perimeter as best we can with our limited personnel."

Gabriel ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "Who stayed?"

"About half a dozen men, all scientists. The rest either left when we went through the buildings or had already fled." Edward's jaw tightened slightly. "Some probably with claimed women, I imagine..."

"The missing scientists from Ramona's list?" Gabriel asked, hope and dread mingling in his voice.

Edward shook his head. "Unfortunately, we didn't find any unclaimed women from that list. Dr. Junia Verhoeven's office was ransacked, and Dr. Thalia Wex's lab coat was on the floor of her lab, but no sign of either of them."

Gabriel sighed deeply, leaning against the doorframe. The weight of responsibility seemed to press him further into the ground with each passing hour. I wanted to go to him, to offer comfort, but I remained in bed, aware that Edward's presence made the situation more formal.

"What's the situation you mentioned?" Gabriel finally asked.

Edward glanced down the corridor, then back at Gabriel, lowering his voice. "A few men are at the gates, asking to be let in. They say we stole their wives, girlfriends..."

"Shit..."

Alright! This was chapter 12 out of 67. I'll post one or more chapters daily. If you wish to support my work, or want exclusive access to the rest of the story, feel free to purchase it on Kindle or Smashwords, and do not hesitate to check out the rest of my published work there.

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