Her fingers twitch against the pavement.
“Good,” I say. “Your legs?”
“I think so.” She tries to shift and flinches. “Ow. Ribs are mad.”
“Do not move.”
“You said that already.”
“You did not obey.”
A weak laugh leaves her and becomes a pained hiss. “You’re very stern for a man who just threw somebody into a trash can.”
“I should have thrown him farther.”
“Probably bad for the trash can.”
Her face tightens again, and her eyes begin to slide closed.
“No.” I lean closer. “Stay awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“You are lying.”
“Maybe a little.”
The fear in me expands until it has teeth. Vakutan warriors are taught to read wounds quickly. Head strike. Possible concussion. Bruised ribs. Facial trauma. Shock. She needs a clinic. She needs imaging, nanite therapy, a clean bed, and someone who does not have blood on his hands kneeling over her in an alley.
I slide one arm under her shoulders and the other beneath her knees. “I am lifting you.”
“Okay.”
The softness of her answer frightens me more than her sarcasm did.
I gather her against my chest with care that feels impossible for a body built like mine. She weighs almost nothing. That is not romantic. It is horrifying. Her body is warm and fragile, human bones beneath damp cloth, breath shallow against my coat. I stand and feel her groan into my chest when movement jars her ribs.
“I am sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
“For allowing this.”
Her eyes open more fully, confused and offended even through pain. “You didn’t allow anything.”
“I was watching them.”
“And then you stopped them.”
“Late.”
“Kauss.”
The way she says my name silences me. Not because it is loud. Because it expects me to listen.
Her hand curls weakly against my coat. “They did this. Not you.”
The alley tilts for a reason that has nothing to do with balance.
