Megan's Mark

They were created, not born. They were trained, not raised. They weren’t meant to be free, to laugh, to play or to love. But they were. They were men and women who whose souls had been forged in the fires of hell.

Jonas Wyatt stared at the files in front of him, the reports of the Breeds and their mates, men and women who had found something unique. A mating unlike anything most humans could know or understand. One that may well turn world opinion against them now.

They were Breeds. Genetic alterations that had somehow found the grace of God, or whatever deity existed. They had survived, not just the genetic alterations, but also the cruelties their creators had heaped upon them for decades.

The Genetics Council.

He ran his fingers over his short, military cut hair and breathed out roughly as he the tattoo on his scalp tingled beneath the short spikes of his hair. F two, dash oh seven. His lab designation and birth ranking that the Genetics Council had assigned to him.

The Genetics Council had been created nearly a century before, a group of the greatest scientific, biological, physiological and genetic experts in the world at that time. They had funded the first lab, started the first experiments. Monsters with no conscience, no remorse and no compassion.

He grimaced as he pushed himself from his chair and stalked to the wide window on the other side of his office. There, he stared out onto the perfect, precise lawn of the Federal building the Office of Breed Affairs was located in.

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his slacks, staring at the image he cast in the glass. Military straight, his shoulders thrown back, the silk gray slacks and white dress shirt hung comfortably on his broad frame. He didn’t look out of place. On a good day, he didn’t feel out of place.

Today wasn’t a good day.