Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Zia
The smell of melting solder usually calmed me. It was the scent of connection, of fixing broken things, of permanent solutions.
The bus hit another bump. A big one.
My hand slipped.
The barrel of the soldering iron, heated to 700 degrees, slashed across the meat of my left palm.
"Fffff—"
I dropped the iron. It clattered into its safety stand, thankfully, but the damage was done.
The pain wasn't immediate. It was a white-hot silence, a gap in the signal, followed a split second later by a screaming, red-lined peak that flooded my entire nervous system.
I hissed, clutching my wrist, curling into myself. The smell of singed skin mixed with the resin smoke.
I sat there for ten seconds, breathing through my teeth. four in. six out.
Old Protocol Zia would have run it under cold water, wrapped it in gaffer tape, and kept working. Old Protocol Zia treated her body like a rental car, drive it until the wheels fall off, then worry about the deposit.
But the burn was angry. It was going to blister. It was on my hand. I needed my hands.
And... I had a team.
I stared at the door to the lounge.
First clause kills, second clause cures.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty tech bay. "Test case."
I stood up, cradling my hand against my chest. The pain was a throbbing bass kick now, steady and nauseating.
I walked into the rear lounge.
It was dim. The only light came from the floor strips and the glow of a laptop screen.
Kit was there.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, messing with a snare drum. His movements were rhythmic, hypnotic. Twist, tighten, tune.
He looked up as I entered. He didn't smile. He scanned me.
I could tell as soon as he saw the way I was holding my arm that he knew I was injured. He saw the tightness around my eyes.
He set the drum key down. He didn't stand up. He stayed low. Non-threatening.
"Z?" His voice was a low rumble, steeped in Manchester rain. "You alright?"
My throat felt tight. Asking for help felt like handing someone a loaded gun.
"I..." My voice shook. I hated it. "I need help."
Kit didn't launch into action. He didn't gasp. He didn't rush me.
"Copy," he said. His tone shifted. It went flat, calm, professional. "What's the damage?"
"Burn. Soldering iron. Left palm."
"Right." He moved then, but he telegraphed it. "I'm standing up now. Going to the kit bag in the kitchenette. You sit on the sofa? Or stay standing?"
"Standing," I said. Sitting felt too vulnerable.
"Standing. Sorted."
He moved past me, keeping a wide arc. He returned a moment later with the first aid kit, the serious one, not the dingy box with three gauze pads and a dried-up tube of antiseptic.
He set it on the table. He snapped on a pair of black nitrile gloves.
"I'm going to come into your space," Kit said, locking eyes with me. "I need to see the hand. Permission to approach?"
"Yes."
He stepped in. He stopped two feet away. Heat radiated off him, warm and solid.
"I'm narrating every move," he said softly. "Not because I think you can't handle it, but so you know what's coming. No surprises."
I nodded. The pain in my hand was sharp, but his voice was... heavy. It occupied the frequency range usually reserved for panic.
"Reaching out now," Kit murmured. "I'm going to take your wrist. Just the wrist. My left hand on your left wrist."
He moved slowly. His gloved fingers wrapped around my forearm. His grip wasn't tight, but it was absolute. An anchor.
"Got you," he said. "Lifting the hand to the light. You tell me if the angle hurts."
"It's fine."
He inspected the burn. He made a small noise in his throat, a sympathetic hum.
"Clean line," he assessed. "Second degree. Stings like a bastard, I bet."
"Like clipping audio," I managed.
"Right then." He reached for a bottle with his free hand. "Antiseptic first. This is the spray. It's cold, then it burns. Will sting. Two-count. Breathe with me."
He looked at me. "Ready?"
"Ready."
"One. Two."
Hiss.
The spray hit. I flinched, sucking in a breath through my teeth.
"Good lass," Kit crooned. "That's the worst bit done. Breathe out. Six count. One, two, three..."
I exhaled. His voice was a metronome. A click track for my nervous system.
"Applying the gel now," he said, uncapping a tube. "Cooling. Hydrogel. I'm going to dab it on. No rubbing."
The touch was feather-light. The coolness was instant relief.
"Better?"
"Yeah."
"Right. Dressing time." He peeled open a sterile pad. "Going to lay this over the line. Then wrap it. I need to apply pressure to secure the tape."
He paused. He waited for my eyes to meet his again.
"Pressure now," he said, unrolling the gauze. "My hand's on yours. Firm grip. Still good?"
The sensation of his hand, large, warm even through the glove, encompassing my smaller one, was overwhelming. But it wasn't the touch that made my breath hitch.
It was the containment.
It was the way he was holding me together while telling me exactly how he was doing it.
"Still good?" he repeated, checking my pupils.
"Yeah," I whispered.
He wrapped the gauze. Over, under. Efficient. Experienced. A drummer's hands, used to taping up blisters and cracks.
"Tape coming across," he murmured. "Securing the wrist. Not too tight? Wiggle your fingers for me."
I wiggled them.
"Perfect. Proper movement."
He smoothed the tape down. He didn't let go immediately. He held my hand, suspended in the air between us, his thumb brushing over the knuckles of my good fingers.
"Tell me stop," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling right in the center of my chest, "and I'm furniture again."
My breathing hitched.
It wasn't pain. The pain was a distant hum now, buried under the gel and the adrenaline.
It was his voice.
It was the specific, narcotic weight of his authority filtered through absolute care. The way he took the thinking away from me.
Antiseptic. Breathe. Pressure. Good lass.
My brain, usually a hamster wheel of analyzing frequencies and exit strategies, had gone completely silent. Silent and... soft.
I felt a flush start at the back of my neck that had nothing to do with the burn. My knees felt watery.
I stared at his chest, at the black t-shirt stretched over muscle.
"Don't stop talking," I muttered.
Kit went still.
I felt the shift in him. The realization hitting him in real-time. He realized he wasn't just rendering first aid; he was administering a sedative.
He didn't pull away. He didn't make it weird.
He leaned in, just an inch.
"Copy that," he murmured. "We're done with the wrap. I'm going to peel the gloves off now. Going to engage the trash can."
Snap. The gloves came off.
"I'm going to get you water," he continued, keeping that same low, steady cadence. "From the fridge. Cold. You're going to sit on the sofa. Because you look a bit grey, Z. Adrenaline crash."
He guided me to the sofa without touching me, just using the gravity of his voice.
"Sit," he said.
I sat.
"Water." He placed the bottle in my good hand. "Drink. Three sips. I'm watching."
I drank. The water was freezing.
Kit stood there, hands visible, leaning slightly against the table.
"Pulse is coming down," he observed. "Color's coming back. You're sorted."
He looked at the bandage.
"Keep it dry. We change it tomorrow. I'll do it."
"You'll do it?" It wasn't a question. It was a hope.
"I'll do it," he confirmed. "Same drill. Narration. Protocol. Unless you want Euan's steady hands?"
"No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "You."
Kit's eyes darkened. Just a fraction. A flash of something possessive and pleased, quickly masked by care.
"Right. Me."
He stepped back. The distance felt cold.
"I'm going back to the snare now," he said, pointing at his spot on the floor. "Furniture mode. You stay there. Let the meds work."
"Okay."
He sank back down to the floor. He picked up the drum key.
He didn't look at me, but he kept talking, low and soft, under the hum of the bus engine.
"Just tuning the bottom head now. Needs a quarter turn. Keeping it tight. You're safe, Z. We're just driving. Just tuning."
I closed my eyes. The sound of his voice wrapped around me tighter than the gauze.
I fumbled for my phone with my good hand. I needed a reality check. I needed to tell someone before I floated away on the vibration of a Manchester accent. So I texted Callie.
Emergency.
Did you kill one of them? If you hid the body I can provide an alibi but I need 20 mins notice.
No. I burned my hand. Kit fixed it.
And this is an emergency why?
He narrated it. He told me every time he was going to touch me. He told me to breathe.
Callie, I almost passed out. Not from the pain.
I discovered I react to an Alpha’s voice like it’s narcotic. When he gives instructions? My brain turns off. It’s... I think I have a problem.
Babe.
BABE.
Babe!! That’s not a problem, that’s a KINK. You have a praise/safety kink. Oh my god. Does he know??
I looked over the top of my phone. Kit was tuning the drum, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Quarter turn," he murmured to the room. "Tight and snappy."
He knew. He absolutely knew.
I told him not to stop talking.
RIP Zia. Cause of death: Manchester baritone and basic medical care. I’ll write your eulogy.
My phone pinged with a notification from the band’s internal app, the shared "Whiteboard" Rowan used to manage logistics and protocols.
Update by: R. Quill
Time: 02:15 AM
Subject: Protocol Addendum
Note: Kit Wilde assigned as primary Post-Impact Caretaker.
Parameter: Narrated Touch Protocol approved when invited. Voice modulation effective for subject regulation.
I stared at the screen.
Rowan wasn't even in the room. How did she know? Was she monitoring the bus audio? Or did Kit text her while I was drinking water?
I looked at Kit.
He caught my eye. He winked.
"Drink your water, love," he said. "We're miles from anywhere."
I drank the water.
I was absolutely in trouble.