Now there is a child with Vakutan traits and her eyes?—
No. Wait.
I look harder.
Not her eyes.
Mine.
Or close enough to make me sick.
“Tilda,” I say again, and this time there’s no teasing in it. No grin. No easy polish. Just the name. “How old is he?”
Her expression shuts down even further. I didn’t know that was possible. “Leave.”
“How old is he?”
“Bron.”
That’s it. Just my name, but packed so tight with warning it might as well be a blade.
The child flinches at her tone, and shame flashes through me hot and immediate. I take a step back at once.
“Hey,” I say softly, and this is for him now, not her. “No, no, it’s all right, little man.”
Tilda’s face changes again when I speak to him. Not soft. Not exactly. Worse.
Protective.
Terrified.
That, more than anything, strips the stupid from me.
Whatever this is, whatever I think I’m seeing, she is scared of me knowing it.
Which means she already knows what I’m asking.
The silence stretches.
Then she turns away from me, one arm around the boy, one hand at the back of his head, and starts for the far corridor leading deeper into the family suites.
I stand there like I’ve forgotten how ankles work.
At the threshold she stops just long enough to look back over her shoulder.
Not for drama.
Not for one of those loaded half-pauses television loves.
Just a look.
Cold. Tense. Furious. And under all of it, something raw enough to make my stomach drop.
Then she says, very quietly, “Do not follow me.”
And she disappears around the corner with the child on her hip.
The alcove feels suddenly enormous and empty.
