Page 45 of Legacy Ascended

“He'll want to know what you thought of it.”

“He doesn’t get that.”

Chapter eight

Jessica

Bergström changed the dressing yesterday, examined the wound, and said good twice. I have never been so happy to toss that sling in the trash.

I can get my own shirt over my head as long as I do it in the right order and don't get overconfident. This afternoon I carried my own bag across the whole courtyard and only regretted it a little, which I'm choosing to call a victory.

What I still can’t do is train. Bergström has put that in writing, so now everyone responsible for me can quote her whenever I start testing the limits.

Before the valley, being excused from training would have felt like a gift. Now I keep remembering what it felt like when those darts took me down. I don’t miss running drills, but I sure as hell want to kick the ass of anyone who tries to take me again.

“Stop,” Sophia says.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“Oh, I absolutely do. You’re figuring out how much medical advice you can ignore before the rest of us have to tackle you.”

“Nobody is tackling me. My shoulder is injured.”

“Then stop looking like you’re planning an escape.”

“I already escaped somewhere this month. I’ve met my quota.”

Sophia points at me from the couch, where she’s lying upside down with her feet against the wall. “Voss said your brief was usable, by the way. Renzo heard him.”

“I heard her say usable,” Renzo confirms from the floor. “That’s her word for brilliant. She said my footwork was usable once, and I thought about it for a week.”

“She meant your feet existed,” Declan says.

“You weren’t there.”

“I was standing next to you.”

The suite is warm, loud, and smells like whatever Declan has on the stove. Everyone is writing except me. My delayed essay is the only useful thing to come out of being kidnapped, and I’m taking full advantage of it.

Luke is at the table with his laptop open and his sleeves rolled, arguing with somebody over the wording of an email. He looks up. Our eyes catch, and I lose the thread of what Sophia is saying.

"—and then she said the whole class had to resubmit, which is insane, so I said—"

"Mm."

"You're not listening."

"I'm listening."

"You're not, you've gone pink." Sophia rolls over to look at me properly. "Oh my god."

Torres is on the arm of my chair where he's been all evening, and his hand has migrated from my knee to my thigh and has been drawing small absent circles there through my jeans. He isn't even looking at me. He's arguing with Renzo about somebody's block work.

And Soren is standing by the window with a cup of tea, close enough that I keep catching the edge of him — the shape of his shoulders against the dark glass, the way he tips his head when he's listening. I want him closer, and I'm tired of pretending I don't.