Phoebe Calloway was his mate. And that was exactly why he could not reach. Because the precursor had cost him a decade. If he reached and she didn't reach back, he would not survive it.
He chose the rule that would guard his heart. Show, never say. Be near, but never reach.
"The medic will complete your assessment," he said. "I will remain at the scene until the safety team arrives."
"Thank you, Thorne." Her voice caught on his name. Just slightly.
The frost on his knuckles cracked inside his gloves. He clasped his hands behind his back.
Twenty minutes later, Commander Oris found him at the edge of the debris field, reviewing the technician's preliminary report on the cable failure.
"Walk with me."
They walked. Oris kept his voice low, his pace measured, his rust-colored markings darkened with what Thorne recognized as genuine concern. Oris was one of the few people whose emotional register was almost always authentic. He was a career military officer who considered pretense a waste of operational time.
"The rigging failure is under investigation. Could be wear. Could be something else." Oris paused at the edge of the wings, looking back at the stage. "Miss Calloway is a high-value asset for this festival. Earth's premier performer, second year running. The director's already losing sleep."
Thorne waited.
"I'm assigning you as her personal security detail. Close-quarters. Every day. From now until the safety review clears and we know what happened with that cable."
"Commander—"
"You're the best I have. You were first on the scene, you pulled her clear, and your truth-sense gives you a threat-assessment edge no one else on the team can match." Oris turned to face him. His expression was matter-of-fact. "She's going to have someone with her at all times. I'd rather it be you than someone I trust less."
"Respectfully, Commander. I would suggest?—"
"This isn't a suggestion, Thorne."
The silence between them was brief and complete. Oris held his gaze. Thorne's jaw tightened.
"Understood."
Oris nodded, clapped him once on the shoulder, and walked away to deal with the festival director.
Thorne stood alone in the wings.
On the far side of the stage, Phoebe was standing, shock blanket abandoned on the road case, talking to a cluster of crew members, warm and gracious, as if she had not just nearly died.Her red lipstick was still smudged at the corner. Her hands were still shaking. Her voice was steady and bright and giving the crew exactly the reassurance they needed. His truth-sense could read the performance over the fear and something underneath reaching in his direction.
Close-quarters. Every day.
Inside his gloves, frost crawled across his knuckles.
four
. . .
The medic cleared her,and then a Cinnamite festival coordinator with kind eyes and cinnamon-warm hands guided her to a quieter corner backstage and told her that Officer Thorne had been formally assigned as her personal security detail for an indefinite duration, effective immediately.
"He'll escort you to and from the venue, conduct pre-performance sweeps, and maintain proximity during all public appearances until the safety review concludes." The coordinator's voice was gentle. "Commander Oris selected him personally. You're in excellent hands, Miss Calloway."
Excellent hands.
The words landed, and her stupid, traitorous body supplied the memory before she could stop it: Thorne's hands. One at her shoulder blades, fingers spread wide and pressing her against his chest. The other one… lower. Significantly lower. Curved around the swell of her ass like his palm had been made to fit there. The weight of his body beneath hers. The rigid line of him pressed against her hip through layers of uniform and performance dress, unmistakable and?—
"That's very reassuring," she said, and smiled, and the coordinator smiled back.
He's not here because he wants to be near you. He's here because it's his job.
