“Her heart rate has spiked,” Oz murmurs to Avrell. “But this could be because all these mortarekkers are in here gawking at her like she’s some sort of experiment.”
Aria—I’m already starting to pair the voices to names—says, “Oz is right. We should give them some room. Oz, why don’t you bring her to the Navigation Bay once she’s settled so we can get her a room, some food, and a proper introduction without all the craziness? Breccan and I will want an update on her condition when you’re through.”
“Yes, Madam Commander, of course,” Oz replies, although his tone doesn’t sound very deferential. That would be the rascal I’ve come to know. He pretends to be very polished on the outside, but if I read him correctly, he’s got a little bit of a devil underneath.
“We can’t wait to officially meet you,” comes the twangy voice from earlier. She’d told me her name, but I’ve already forgotten it. I’m usually so good at remembering things.
“Are you experiencing any pain or trouble breathing?” Avrell asks over the walkie-talkie.
“Maybe a little anxiety,” I admit.
“That’s to be expected,” Avrell replies, all business. “According to the information collected by Ozias from a quick physical, it doesn’t seem as though you’ve suffered any ill effects from the cryosleep pods. Whatever was keeping you in a coma has resolved itself. Provided that she shows no difficulty breathing, problems with cognition or general malaise, I give her a clean bill of health. Now if that will be all, I must return to my patients here before this rekking woman drives them all to an early grave.” With a click, the line goes dead before I can thank him for his time or ask any questions.
“Ready to get out of this place, Whisper?” Oz asks. “I can give you a tour of the facility if you’re feeling up to it.”
“You bet. Um, the only thing is I’ll need some clothes if you don’t mind.” I wonder if he can hear the tremor in my voice. I’ve been safe inside this room, relatively at least. Stepping outside it would mean there’s no going back.
“I’ve got a minnasuit out here for you to change into. I’ll give you privacy, I promise.”
I nod. “Okay,” I say softly.
He places a suit made of a material I’ve never seen before on the bed beside me, then respectfully gives me his back—what little I can see of it. I’d never really cursed my terrible eyesight until this moment. I’ve always had glasses to mitigate that shortcoming. Or contacts, when I could bare to wear them.
I wish I had them so I could see what he looks like, even if it’s only his back. To put a face to the name, to the voice I’ve come to know, even if only after a short while. But all I see is a trim, tall body with wiry shoulders encased in a skin-tight suit. His shoulder-length hair curls around his neck in a dark slash and I wonder as I tug on my own suit if maybe he’d let me touch it to see how it feels.
It takes some doing, but I manage to squeeze myself into the suit. My hair falls around my face in a disordered array of riotous curls, but I feel around on the table next to me and find a writing instrument of some sort. In a habit more ingrained in me than breathing, I twist my hair up into a bun and stick the thin cylindrical shape through to hold it. That alone makes me feel more like myself, even if my face feels naked.
“You can turn around now.”
He does and clears his throat when he sees me. “Follow me,” he says.
“Wait—wait a second.”
He pauses. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not that.” I bite my lip, switching from foot to foot. “I just can’t see.”
“Are you blind, my Whisper?” He lifts a hand as though to touch my face, then lets it fall back to his side. “Never matter. Calix’s mate, Emery, had troubled lungs. I will find a way to fix your troubled eyes.”
“I’m not blind,” I say and try to order myself not to blush at how he called me his. “I just can’t see very well. I’m afraid if you start wandering off, I may get lost. Perhaps this was a bad idea. I can go to the place the women were talking about earlier. I don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
Oz moves closer and I catch his scent. Like the tang of metal laced with grease and the musk of man. What a lovely smelling arachnid he is. He lifts a hand to me and offers his elbow. “Take my arm,” he says and it’s hard not to be reminded of the knights from fairy tales, even if he may look more like a monster. Not that I would know. “I’ll make sure you won’t get lost.”