Shards of Hope (Psy-Changeling 14)
The delicately but brightly patterned vase was a direct violation of pre-Honeycomb rules. It had also been a gift from Aden. He’d given it to her a year ago, and it was one of her most precious treasures; he understood her desire for pretty and shiny things, had never judged her for it.
A sudden quiet between them.
“Did Ashaya Aleine get back to you?” she said quickly when he straightened in preparation for leaving.
A nod. “Soon after you left—she confirmed that it’s a combination of the Alliance implant and the one she created; she also said that it’s highly unstable. If we hadn’t dug it out, it would’ve overloaded soon afterward, fail-safe switch or not.”
The idea of Aden dead because someone wanted to play at being a scientific mastermind had Zaira’s jaw going tight. “Is there any way we can protect ourselves against it?”
“No. I’ve asked Aleine to work on a possible defensive countermeasure, but the fact is, it’s probable the only solution will turn out to be a different type of implant and even the Alliance implant is in its early days.”
“I could live a lifetime without ever having something shoved into my brain again.” And if it happened, she’d dig it right back out, no matter the consequences. “At least now we know whoever was behind this had the power and the contacts to get their hands on two experimental implants.”
“Yes.”
Another taut silence.
Aden began to turn toward the door. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
“Wait.” She didn’t want him to go, wanted his scent close and his presence within touching distance . . . and if she hadn’t inherited her parents’ madness, then . . . “I’m not ready for sleep. Would you like to stay for breakfast?”
Aden straightened. “I’ll get the food while you shower.”
• • •
ADEN returned with the food to find that Zaira was still in the shower. Carefully taking her vase off the side table to place it on the floor, he moved the table to in front of the bed and put the food on it.
Shrugging off his coat, he slung it over the back of the single chair in the room and placed that chair on the other side of the table. He’d just taken off his suit jacket and tie when the bathroom door opened. There was no steam. “You don’t have to shower in ice-cold water,” he said when she walked out in the simple black T-shirt and supple black pants that functioned as off-duty gear for most Arrows who weren’t in civilian clothing for an operation. “That was only for training purposes.”
“It was cool, not cold.” Taking his jacket, the tie in one of the pockets, she hung it inside the closet built into the wall, then picked up his overcoat and did the same. “Why don’t you wear your formal Arrow uniform to these meetings with the Forgotten and other groups? Blending in again?”
“In a way.” He unbuttoned and folded up the sleeves of his black shirt. “A military uniform puts people on edge.”
“How do you do it—appear harmless?”
“I’ve practiced.”
Coming around the table, Zaira took a cross-legged position on her hard, narrow bed. She hadn’t bought a fluffy comforter yet; the idea of it reminded her too much of her secret time with Aden, made her too angry with missing him. “Where are the nutrient drinks?” He had to have bought the other items on the table from a nearby café.
He tapped the glasses on either side, but when she reached for one, he picked up a slice of apple and held it out. “You like this.”
Closing her fingers around the glass, she took a long drink. He didn’t lower his hand. “Trying to break my will?” she asked.
“Never.”
And because she knew he spoke the truth, she took the sweet, tart piece of fruit, bit into it. They didn’t speak again until after they’d finished the meal in a silence that wasn’t painful, wasn’t alone. His breath, his scent, the competent, confident strength of his presence, filled the space.
“Have you slept?” she asked as he finished off his nutrient drink. His dress would’ve told her he’d been in meetings in other time zones, even if she hadn’t been in touch with him about the saboteurs throughout the night.
He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead. “I’ll need to get at least five hours soon or I’ll lose some alertness.”
The needy, lonely, twisted part of her merged with the controlled Arrow at that instant, and they both wanted only one thing. “Stay.”
He went motionless.
Uncrossing her legs, she got off the bed, braced for rejection. He’d seen her in the grip of the rage that was like madness, seen what she became. Maybe the time since that incident had made him realize just how bad of a bet she was in every possible way.
The half-insane girl inside her didn’t hit out at him in a preemptive strike, simply curled into a hard knot in her gut. She was flinching, she thought, just like Tavish. Trying to make herself smaller so it wouldn’t hurt so much. When she took hold of the table, he got up and helped her put it aside so that the bed was no longer blocked. Once that was done, she was aware of him waiting for her to speak again but she didn’t have any words. So she just got into bed and faced the balcony.
If he wanted to leave, he could leave.
There was silence for a long minute, and then she heard clothing rustle, a belt move against fabric. The bed dipped behind her soon afterward. She lifted her head for his arm and saw he’d removed his shirt. He was hot against her, the arm he put around her waist muscled steel.