Page 33 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

Oh, wonderful. We’re involving me again. My favorite local disaster.

“I was not beside you on purpose,” I say.

“You were exactly where you chose to be.”

“Yes, and I choose many regrettable things under pressure. That doesn’t make them policy.”

His one eye is on me and my stupid heart stutters for some ignorant reason of its own. The glow under his throat flickers once, quick and treacherous. The flicker pulls my attention, and he catches me watching.

For one ugly second, the cistern disappears around us. It’s only his one open eye, black ringed in gold, heat under bronze skin, a warning I keep mistaking for a question. Then Syin steps between us, and I remember to breathe like a normal person with plans to survive the afternoon.

“Enough,” Rosalind says. “We don’t have time to solve everything in this room.”

“That has never stopped us from trying,” I mutter.

She glances at me. I look at the floor. A mature response, and therefore suspiciously rare. Merra releases Rhazek’s jaw and starts digging through her healer’s roll.

“He needs the wing braced.”

“No,” Rhazek says at once.

“Yes,” Merra says.

“No.”

“Rosalind, tell the off-world slab that I can still remove fingers,” I offer.

Rhazek’s eyes narrow. “The wing must move.”

“The wing is already moving badly. I’m offering it the dignity of failing in one direction,” Merra says.

Despite everything, a small sound escapes me. Rhazek looks over. I pretend it was a cough, which fools no one and least of all him.

Merra pulls out a narrow brace made from old black composite and pale woven straps. It’s not City work, so it must be scavenged from some pre-crash storage. We never throw away anything that might someday keep a body alive, which is either practical or grim enough to count as religion.

Rhazek watches the brace like it’s a trap. Despite myself, I’m trying to figure out what his problem is. Why doesn’t he want the brace? The wing has to hurt like hell. Then understanding arrives before I can refuse it.

It’s not the brace. It’s being held. Strapped. Adjusted by hands that don’t ask. Restraints have taught him to remember. His face gives nothing away, but his breathing changes. It’s too measured. Too obedient. That kind of control isn’t calm. It’s a cage with manners.

I step closer before caution and general good sense can rebuild the distance.

“She’s not restraining you.”

He cuts a look toward me, sharp enough to draw blood. “I know.”

“No, you don’t. You know the shape. Not the intent.”

A tiny muscle works in his jaw.

Merra pauses with the brace in her hands, eyes moving between us. For once, she doesn’t say the perfect rude thing. Mercy from unexpected directions. We should mark the day.

Rhazek’s jaw tightens, then he looks away.

“Do it,” he says, his voice soft and low.

Merra does. Efficiently if not exactly gently, because Merra believes gentleness is for people with spare time and good choices. But she tells him before every pull of the strap, and somehow that matters. His torn wing flexes once, trembling along the scarred edge, then settles higher against his back. Better enough to walk without scraping every stone between here and doom.

The sphere pulses again.