“Of course,” I said, though every fiber of my being wanted to ask her to stay. I watched as she moved toward the door, her movements slightly unsteady, and I realized I wasn’t the only one affected by what had just happened. “That was certainly worth getting injured,” I murmured, my voice rough.
I remained seated at the table, my bandaged hand resting in my lap. The treehouse felt impossibly quiet without her presence, and I touched my lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of hers against them.
The kiss had awakened something in me I hadn’t even known was sleeping. It wasn’t just desire, though that was certainly part of it. It was a deep, aching need to protect her, to be worthy of the trust she’d shown me, to prove that I wasn’t broken and could be the male she and Lilibet deserved.
My chest felt tight with emotions I couldn’t quite name. Hope, perhaps. Fear, certainly. Jolie had kissed me—not out of gratitude or desperation, but because she wanted to. Thethought sent another wave of warmth through me, and I resisted the urge to follow her outside and sweep her into another kiss.
Instead, I sat there, letting the magnitude of the moment settle over me, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again. I wanted more. I wanted Jolie. Whether I deserved her or not.
Chapter 9
Jolie
I fell asleep, drowning in the memory of kissing Diarvet. I don't know why I had. I was a nurse for God's sake, I'd bandaged hundreds of wounds. I knew better than to kiss a patient.
But Diarvet wasn't just a patient. He was my friend, my protector. Probably the only soul in the universe who truly understood how I felt about Lilibet. Kissing him hadn't just seemed right—it had felt inevitable, necessary, like drawing breath.
I tried desperately not to let it make things awkward between us, but in the hours after the kiss, everything had shifted. The air crackled with electricity whenever we were together, as though even the jungle held its breath, waiting to see who would make the next move. I wondered that myself.
I jolted awake, muscles tight, chest heaving with ragged breaths that echoed in the silence. Cold sweat beaded my hairline as my body shivered in warning. Something was wrong. The knowledge settled into my bones before my mind could process why.
Silently, I reached across the mattress. My trembling fingers found Lilibet curled beneath the blanket, her chest rising and falling in sleep. Her soft, steady breath calmed my racing heart. Relief flooded me—until I heard it.
A whimper. Low, guttural, and saturated with agony.
Diarvet?
The sound warped and deepened, becoming a strangled groan laced with terror.
A thousand horrific possibilities exploded in my mind. I saw Diarvet locked in a life-or-death struggle, his massive frame bloodied and broken, fighting to protect us. I imagined claws, fangs, alien predators stalking our sanctuary. But there were no battle sounds—just the oppressive jungle silence, punctuated by the groans coming from the other room.
Moving with care not to disturb Lilibet's slumber, I slid out from under the covers. My feet made no sound as they touched the cool floorboards. I leaned over and reached for the knife I kept on the bedside table, something I'd started doing since coming to this alien world.
Diarvet had been amused when he first saw me place a knife on the table. Not because my desire for protection was funny, but because the knife was so small it could barely cut fruit. The next morning, he gave me a six-inch blade from his collection: supple leather sheath, handle carved from bone, yellowed with age and use and etched with tribal-like patterns. The blade came from his youth, earned and bled for—a warrior's rite of passage. This wasn't just a weapon. This was Diarvet protecting me.
My fingers closed around the handle, slipping the blade from its sheath. I held it as Diarvet taught me—hammer grip, blade angled, ready. The weight in my palm was both comforting and terrifying.
Eden’s huge moon lit the night, pale light streamed through the windows, dust motes dancing gleefully. I slipped from the bedroom, as silent as possible, moving across the hallway toward Diarvet's room.
His door was cracked, and I pushed it open, grimacing at the faint creak. He lay on the bed, blanket to his waist, muscular chest rising and falling unevenly, face contorted with pain.
No blood. No threat. Just a nightmare.
He was groaning, his head thrashing back and forth as he fought the horrors in his mind.
I knew nightmares. The kids on the oncology ward where I’d worked knew nightmares. They knew terror and pain in ways few children should. And because of that, I had learned how to wake someone gently. How to soothe worried minds and hearts scared of the monsters that stalked their sleep.
But Diarvet wasn’t a child. He wasn’t even a man. He was a massive alien warrior capable of snapping me in half without much effort. I knew about PTSD and how it could turn minds into war zones. Yet his handsome face, etched with terror, made me certain I couldn't leave him to fight alone—even with the danger of waking someone lost in their nightmare.
"Diarvet," I whisper-yelled, keeping my voice as low as possible not to wake Lilibet. I didn't want her to see him like this.
At the sound of my voice, his expression changed, becoming less tormented, but he didn't awaken.
"Diarvet," I hissed again, stepping closer. I dropped the knife on the chest nearby, not wanting either of us hurt if I startled him.
I reached out slowly, my hand hovering just above his shoulder. His massive frame was tense, muscles coiled like springs ready to snap. A low growl rumbled from his throat, and his head thrashed from side to side.
"No, not Lilibet," he muttered, his voice thick with anguish. "Please... not her...."
