Chapter 7: Survival Instinct

The more I thought, the worse I felt. Right then—

The big insectoid brother who’d brought me in showed up, filling in for my usual nanny, cleaning the place. I gave him my best rescue-dog look—like a rescue dog who’s learned to sit, stay, and smile for the next family that’ll never come—over and over. He kept his eyes on his work, but his antennae twitched.

He always paid special attention to me. I knew that much.

I turned to the screen and made my best about-to-cry face.

He kept cleaning, but one tentacle brushed my injured ankle.

The wound had scabbed over, red but barely sore anymore.

Then I understood—

They kept me in isolation because of my foot. If I stayed hurt, I wouldn’t get picked.

That night, under the scratchy sheet, I clawed at the scab until blood welled up, hot and sticky. Each sting was a small price to pay for a few more days of safety.

Next morning, the insectoid doctor finally showed. He studied my foot a long while, then wrapped it up as I pretended to cry.

His assistant popped in, chirping. The assistant brought up some kind of alien PowerPoint—charts, graphs, all about compatibility.

At the top, I spotted a code: number two. Natalie.

All the golden codes behind hers—but none matched our boys from the nutrient pods.

Did it mean...?

A month later, I knew for sure.

I kept sabotaging my recovery—staying in med isolation, always acting frail. Every time they tried to take my clothes or raise the room temp, I’d play up my injuries.

Repeated fevers, infections, missed periods—I was a mess. At that point, Derek and Caleb could’ve done jumping jacks naked across my screen and I wouldn’t have cared.

My doctors chirped in concern, switching the images on my screen, hoping it’d perk me up.

That’s when I finally saw her—Natalie, the queen bee, but changed beyond recognition.