Page 80 of Reaper Said Mine

He looks down at me.

“Barely,” I admit.

“I know.”

“Do not make that sound ominous.”

“You are small. You require feeding.”

“I am average-sized for my species, and that sentence is going to cause diplomatic problems if repeated in mixed company.”

“I will risk scandal.”

I laugh, and his expression changes at the sound. It is not triumph. It is not smugness. It is wonder, quickly hidden but not quickly enough. The bond pulls again, softer now, threaded through with something achingly human despite the fact that neither of us really knows what to do with it.

I look out over the docking ring because looking at him directly feels like stepping too close to an open flame. “This is going to complicate my reporting.”

“Yes.”

“You admit that very calmly.”

“Panic would not make it less true.”

“I have ethical obligations.”

“I know.”

“I cannot become your propaganda arm because you looked at me across a feast and rewired my entire nervous system.”

His mouth curves. “That is a vivid accusation.”

“It is a factual summary.”

“Then ask the next factual question.”

I turn back to him. “What do you want from me, Gnash? Not from the interview. Not from IHC. From me.”

The question hangs between us, rawer than anything I have asked on record.

He lowers his gaze to my mouth for the briefest instant, and heat moves through me so fast I grip the railing. When his eyes return to mine, they are darkened by restraint.

“I want many things,” he says. “Most would frighten you if I named them too quickly.”

“I’m not fragile.”

“No,” he says quietly. “That is why I am choosing care.”

The words hit harder than any declaration could have. Care. From him, the word sounds unfamiliar and sacred, dragged from some buried chamber he does not open often.

I realize the recording field is still active.

So does he.

Neither of us moves to stop it.

My voice comes out lower than before. “And professionally?”

“Professionally, I want you to tell the truth.”