Breeder's Pact

Published by: eXtasy Books

Author : Gabriella Bradley

ISBN :978-1-4874-4343-6

Page :132

Word Count :38900

Publication Date :2025-07-10

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats :

Category : Erotic Romance , Science Fiction Romance , Erotica , Science Fiction , What's New

BrandsExtasy Books
Product Code: 978-1-4874-4343-6

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In the year 2985, humanity’s ability to produce healthy offspring begins to falter, and in 3010, natural pregnancy becomes a crime…

In 3045, in the corridors of New Techopolis, a pulse stirs. A young man classified as Prime Breeder A-317 begins to realize that something’s very wrong with his life as a Class A Breeder.

In the careful hands of Mareia Waterman, a geneticist with rebellious thoughts, the world will soon learn and remember that nature does not ask permission to bloom.

Eli lived beneath lights that never dimmed.

For as long as he could remember, the ceiling had glowed with the same pale sterility, illuminating every corner of his small world with cold, functional clarity. This was his domain, where he was number 317. It was the only world he knew. “I am Elijah,” he mumbled softly to himself, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. Long ago, his enhanced memory had buried his name within the deepest recesses of his mind, an area they couldn’t probe. Not yet. Here he was just a number, a number who couldn’t write or read. He was a commodity.

He'd been gestated in a lab, engineered, and enhanced for one sole purpose.

To become a Class A Breeder.

Though Breeders were pampered, given the best of care and food, they were regarded as prized specimens, not as human beings.

There was no dawn here, no dusk, only the endless hum of artificial life. Time passed in standardized cycles and scheduled examinations and tests. The lights were his sun, his moon, his unblinking warden. His days passed in cycles of exercise six times a day in a sterile gym. In the beginning, with trainers, then later alone, with each cycle lasting half an hour. Once a day, a guard escorted him to a pool where he had to swim fifty laps and was trained in breath-holding underwater, diving, and other exercises. It was the same program, day in, day out…

He sat on the edge of his bed—if it could be called that—watching his reflection in the mirror-wall that doubled as a biometric scanner. His room was pristine, with no signs of inhabitation save for the thin line of indentations in the bed’s polymer surface, where his weight had repeatedly pressed down over countless rest cycles. The walls, floors, and even the furniture were molded from a seamless, reflective composite material, smooth as porcelain, hard as steel.

He was tall, towering over most men at six feet four inches. His body was sculpted, lean yet muscular, with the kind of definition that would have graced old-world statues. Every inch of him had been curated, refined, and genetically enhanced and optimized—from the golden curls that brushed just beneath his ears to the chiseled curve of his jaw, to the way his blue eyes—deep and unnatural in their brightness—caught the light.

They had classified him as a perfect specimen…

But perfection was a prison.

His body, revered by the state, was not his own. It belonged to the Dominion, to the Repro Sector, to its Matrons and Medicians, to the AIs, to its icy-eyed robotic guards and endless tests. He’d been labeled a Prime Breeder A three years ago—a title that came with higher nutrient rations, more tests, deeper scrutiny, and fewer illusions of autonomy.

He turned his hand palm-up, tracing the callus-free skin with his thumb. No scars. No marks of labor. Just soft strength and impeccable veins in his wrist, regularly flushed with hormonal enhancements and immuno-serums.

According to their data, he was perfection.

In person, a commodity.

An exhibit…

Outside his room, footsteps echoed.

Eli stood, his muscles reflexively tightening. The room’s sensors tracked his movement, the lights subtly adjusting. The door hissed open before the guards even knocked.

Two guards entered. One woman was tall and broad-shouldered, the other shorter and more alert. Both guards wore steel-gray body-hugging armor with bright yellow stripes running along the sides of their legs and their sleeves, identifying them as Repro Sector Enforcers. Their expressions were unreadable, their eyes hidden behind biometric visors, their voices harsh and cold.

The tall one tapped her wrist pad. “Three-one-seven. Report to Lab C, Lower Genetics Division.”

“Protocol Alpha,” the other added.

That caught his attention. Alpha protocol? That wasn’t routine. Breeders weren’t sent to Lower Genetics. The last time he’d heard of Alpha protocol, a Class B Breeder had vanished.

During mealtime in the large mess hall, he and the other Breeders sometimes had a chance to exchange whispers if the guards weren’t paying close attention. It was basically his only communication with other people—with other Breeders like himself. Except they were all Class B Breeders. There weren’t many Class A Breeders. He hadn’t seen any in the mess hall, easily distinguished by the color of their robe. If there were any others, he had no idea where they lived. Class A wore sky-blue robes. Class B, green. Their rooms were on the floor above his. From conversations he’d overheard when enduring tests, he learned that there were also Class C and Class D Breeders, but he’d never seen them.

“Why?” he dared to ask.

The guards did not explain.

Just silence.

His heart quickened, and he nodded.

“You’ll wear this.” The taller one tossed a garment into his hands.

It shimmered. The robe was made of black silk, stitched with silver lines in a lattice of genetic symbols. He recognized it instantly. It was the ceremonial robe. He’d worn something like it only once before, when he was inducted as a Prime Breeder A in front of the Matron Assembly, in front of pretty much the whole world. A shiver ran down his spine as images and memories from that ceremony sped through his mind.

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Breeder's Pact

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