The Last Feeding

He waited until the others had settled back onto their benches — checking their gear, shaking out their arms, riding the first wave of the cognitive surge — before he stood in front of her.

The van had stopped rattling. They were close now. She could feel it in the change of the engine's pitch, in the way the driver had slowed.

"You okay?" Vic asked quietly.

She nodded.

"First time's weird. I know." He looked at her chest — at the glistening nipples, at the milk still beaded on her skin, at the torn fabric of her tactical top — then at her face. Then at her hands, still curled into loose fists on her thighs. "You did good."

He knelt.

Not rushed. Not casual.

Slow. Deliberate. Present.

His hand came up to cup her breast — the same one Dom had taken first, the same one Beard had drained, the same one that was somehow still full — and his thumb brushed across her nipple before he lowered his mouth.

Vic latched on gently.

Not hungry like Dom. Not reverent like Marcus. Not mechanical like the broad-shouldered man.

Just... steady.

He drank, and Kayla felt the last of the pressure release. The warmth spread through her chest, her shoulders, her neck, down her spine, settling somewhere deep in her belly.

She closed her eyes.

When Vic pulled back, his pupils were wide, his breathing slow and deliberate. The G2 was fully online now — she could see it in the way his gaze sharpened, in the way his head tilted slightly as he processed the ambient noise of the van.

"Good to go," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

He rose. Reached down. Took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face up toward his.

"You stay here. Driver stays with you. Doors locked. Don't open them for anyone who doesn't say the code word."

"What's the code word?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter. You won't need it."