Chapter 1
Six Hours after Escaping Critex-9
Amara
"Come," Sever says to me and walks out of the medical bay.
I blink. My mind is still tangled from learning just minutes ago that Mac would rather turn me and Otto in than risk the Directorate’s wrath. And that’s not even nearly as alarming as the rest of the squad agreeing to see us to safety.
And Sever was once married?
I waver between needing time to sort my thoughts and not wanting to irritate the commander who’s agreed to save my life.
Truce says something from the cot and Arrick nods as his comms node translates. Both males look at me.
“We’re going to figure this out, sweetheart,” Ghost says. “You’re safe with us.”
I give them a small smile. They are stunning to behold against the sterile backdrop of the medical bay.
Truce is half reclined in the cot, his massive shoulders relaxed and hands resting lightly in his lap. Before the retrieval squad arrived on Critex-9, I’ve never seen his kind beyond pictures and limited texts. I watch his chest as the deep gray scales shift subtly with each breath, the muscled expanse interrupted by a small bandage. I study the impressive ridges of his abdomen. Too late, I realize with heat in my cheeks that I’m gawking at him while he’s naked, his torso and long, coiled tail exposed.
Ridiculous. Nudity across species is entirely subjective.
I skirt my eyes over the curious bulge between his hips and swallow. I refuse to dig through what I remember about Vaesh reproductive anatomy.
Truce notices my attention. He tilts his head and hisses again. The sound of it burrows into my ears and wakes up my skin.
Arrick laughs at whatever gets translated. “Yeah, can’t get enough myself.”
Arrick appears comfortable with his decision to help me and Otto. His expression behind the clear helmet visor is untroubled. I wish he didn’t need all that gear. Nethryls are creatures of movement and freedom. His gray tactical suit is a result of the Meridian’s need to control that beauty.
I can admit privately that my resentment over his head to toe concealment is not entirely altruistic.
“Better go on, Amara,” Arrick says indulgently, as if he can read my mind. “The Commander doesn’t like to repeat himself.”
At the reminder, I jump out of my ridiculous thoughts and hurry out to the corridor.
Sever, of course, did not wait for me, so I rush all the way to the cockpit before I realize he isn’t there. I backtrack and find him in my cabin—no, his cabin—with the door slid open.
He’s leaning against the small desk, arms crossed in front him. He says nothing as I step in. He stares at the cot he had tidied while I was showering earlier. I look from him to the rumpled blanket at the end of the mattress where Mac and I—
I clear my throat. “Thank you for letting me use your cabin,” I say, lacing my hands in front of me. “I of course will sleep in the barracks. Or I could share the cabin with Otto.”
He says nothing.
“Or...we could both stay in the barracks, as I’m sure the cabin is also relegated to crew members. I’ve learned that Otto can sleep anywhere.” I give a little laugh. “Not the case for me at first. Nothing on Critex-9 makes for good bedding.”
My nervousness at Sever’s scrutiny starts to prickle into annoyance as he continues to stare, emotionless and still. “Shall I go then?” I ask in exasperation.
“Amara.”
His tone makes my fidgeting hands go still. "Um, yes?"
He takes a deep breath and I can’t help my fascination at the soft pulse of light in his composite eye that seems to shiver with his exhale. “I didn’t call you in here so I could kick you out of my cabin. I insist you use it until we find another ship.” He straightens and holds out his composite hand. “I’m here to get you set up with these.”
In his carbon lattice palm are two small devices, one crescent-shaped and curved, the other square and matte.
“A communications node and throat mic. The node won’t last long with your interference, but it’ll work until Truce and I have a more adaptable solution.”
My eyes fly up to him. That tricky hope I felt when three of them agreed to help us starts to lift its head again.
“If we’re doing this, you need to do exactly what I tell you when I tell you to do it. Understood?”
I ignore the softening of my shoulders at the thought of him taking such weight off of them. “Yes, I understand.” I reach tentatively for the items in his hand. “How do I...?”
He ignores my reach and before I can react, I feel his left hand—his human hand—coast along the shell of my ear.
“It’ll take approximately two minutes to calibrate,” he says quietly. He presses gently behind my ear, setting the node in place. I am helpless from his nearness, my vision swallowed by him, the stubble on his jaw, the Meridian brand on his face. That single hazel eye that seems fixed on my lips.
He shifts a little to place the throat mic on my neck. I shiver at the drag of his callused fingertips.
His composite eye gives a small flash. “Are you cold?” he asks and there’s a huskiness in his voice.
“Ah,” I start, just to prove that I am not thoroughly disarmed. “A little.” I give a nervous laugh and gesture to my shorn scalp self-deprecatingly. “It’s remarkable how a head of hair can truly preserve body heat.”
He steps back, straightening to his full height. He reaches for something tucked into his belt.
It happens quickly and with surprising gentleness. I stand in the room for long moments after he leaves before I reach up and run my hands along the navy blue knit beanie that he’d tugged over my scalp.
