Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Nine hours later
Killan
“Chloe’s gone.”
My eyes snap open, Lydia’s comment icy water tipped over my head. She is standing beside me, hands on hips and glaring. I had been so close to falling asleep at the kitchen table, where the remains of my evening meal still sit, that I hope I misheard.
“What did you say?” My voice is groggy. Fek, I’m tired.
Lydia has not spoken to me since our last argument, eight days ago.
I took the not-so-subtle hint to heart and kept away, working even later into the night than usual to make extra sure she was asleep by the time I stumbled, exhausted, into our shared bed.
Then, in the mornings, I woke up before her and snuck away again.
It is what she wants, I told myself.
In reality, I know the truth—that staying away from Lydia is an act of self-defense.
For to spend any length of time in her presence is enough to set my imagination into overdrive, conjuring up new ideas of what our life together could be like, if only she was not so determined to leave Ril II. And me.
“…not in her room or anywhere else in the house,” she is saying, walking a circle around the kitchen, as I focus my attention. “Harlee and Roan haven’t seen her. And we contacted Briar and Sorin. They just got back to their place, but Chloe isn’t with them, either.”
“She went with Atakis.” Dragging my datapad across the table, I check the scanners, but the ship has already moved too far beyond our planet for me to track. Next, I turn the scanners to the planet’s surface, using heat signals to hunt for signs of life. There is nothing but wind and dust.
“How could you let her escape?”
“Me?” I give my head a shake, trying to dissipate the last of my grogginess, even as my anger flares. Chloe has no scudding clue what trouble she has gotten herself into. The fool should have stayed in the house, where she was safe.
And Lydia—she always knows exactly what to say to ignite my temper.
She heightens all of my emotions—the good and the bad. And I have no defense against her, except to grit my teeth on my oncoming growl and to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.
“You didn’t see her sneaking on board?” Lydia returns to my side so that she can study the screen of my datapad, for all that she will be unable to understand the readings. “There isn’t anywhere to hide outside, so you must have seen her approach.”
“We were carrying Nufaral—”
“All of you together?” she interrupts. “You or Sorin or Roan didn’t think to wait at the ship while the other two carried boxes?”
“No. I did not believe any of you would be so scudding foolish.” I cannot stop the growl this time, furious at Lydia. Angry at Chloe. And annoyed at myself for not guessing something like this would happen.
“She was desperate,” Lydia says, the words short and sharp. “Desperate people do desperate things. I should know.” She mutters that last part, as if speaking from personal experience.
I clench my fists as a sudden and shrill ringing in my ears drowns out all of the other sounds, the thought of Lydia stowing away on Atakis’s Freighter clogging up my mind. Was she desperate enough to have considered doing the same as Chloe? How close had she come to sneaking aboard, too?
Absurdly, my next thought is of Sorin and Briar standing outside together in the wind early this morning, and of Sorin trying to tuck Briar’s knotted hair behind her ears, and of Briar smiling at him, all the while knowing he wasn’t going to succeed but loving the feel of his hands in her hair anyway.
I force my hands behind my back, every cell of my body wanting to reach for Lydia.
To hold her close and to never let her go.
With a yearning so strong it nearly floors me, I want Lydia to feel safe and loved and happy with me.
Most of all, I want her to never ever get so scudding desperate that she considers, even for a second, sneaking onboard someone else’s ship to escape.
The idea of her being at the mercy of Atakis is enough to tear the air from my lungs.
“Earth to Killan…” Lydia waves a hand in front of my face, and I blink. “I said, could we message this Atakis guy and ask him to come back?”
I stand to give myself a reason for not answering immediately. When I do speak, I keep tight control of my voice. “We would need to give him a good reason to make it worth returning. It would delay his progress, and he has other contracts to fulfil after ours.”
“Chloe being on board his ship feels like a pretty good reason to me.”
“No.”
“No?” Lydia steps around me so we are face to face, her eyes are feverishly bright. “What do you mean, no?”
“It is not a good enough reason. We cannot risk telling Atakis about Chloe when there is a possible chance that he does not know about her being aboard.”
“You mean because he’s a creep?”
“A creee-p?” I repeat the unfamiliar word, a short puff of air to create the final “p” sound.
“A bad man,” she explains. “A creep.”
“Yes. Her best hope is to remain undiscovered until they land at Ril I. There, she may have some luck locating help.” If Atakis does not find her first, which he probably will.
“Chloe made her choice. She must deal with the consequences.” Chloe is the least of my concerns, selfishly obsessed with Lydia as I am.
“But—” Lydia splutters. “But we can’t let her get away! Her being trapped here was supposed to be her punishment for helping kidnap Harlee, Briar, and me.”
“I know—”
“She can’t have left. That isn’t fair. Fuck!” Lydia pushes shaking fingers through her too-long hair as the color flees her face. “I should’ve checked her room properly. I should’ve—"
“Lydia.”
She grasps the table edge to steady herself. “I—” She clears her throat and tries again, but no sound leaves her mouth but a breathless gasp for air.
“Lydia!” I direct her onto my abandoned seat, my heart beating roughly in my chest. I have seen her like this only a few times before, when she could not catch her breath. She has a small device that delivers medication into her lungs called…I cannot remember, and it does not matter.
What does matter is that she always carries it with her, and I search the pockets of her breeches, nearly tearing the fabric in my haste, until I find it.
“Here.” I press the gray L-shaped device into Lydia’s hand, as I have seen Harlee do, and I direct her hand toward her mouth.
“Not”—a ragged breath—“asthma.” Another ragged breath and a shake of her hand as she pulls her hand free of my hold, dropping her medicine.
I fall to my knees in front of her. Her face is so pale, her pupils dilated.
“I’m”—a harsh breath, too shallow—“fine.”
“You are not scudding fine.”
Her eyes flash, fierce and angry—always so angry—and for one wild second I hope I have distracted her enough that her breathing returns to normal, but something inside of her seems to shrink down, and she sucks in another too shallow, too painful breath.
I scoop her into my arms, always so easy to carry, and sprint across to the kitchen to one of the closed doors leading from the central room of the house. Holding her in two arms, I have a free hand to turn the handle, and I stumble into the medical bay.
Inside is a single alcove set into a wall, and inside the alcove is an upright medi pallet large enough for a Ril’os to comfortably stand in.
I head toward it, intending to place Lydia inside so that the computer can run diagnostic scans of her body, but she catches sight of the polyplastic case and immediately thrashes against my hold.
Droplets bead her forehead, and she shoves against my chest with all the weak strength of a female who cannot draw a clear breath.
“No”—a ragged breath. “Fuck”—another ragged breath—“no!”
“It will help you.”
“No! Never—getting—in—that. Can’t—make—me!”
“You are not thinking clearly,” I argue, but it is evident my efforts to help are merely making everything worse, and I back out of the room, slamming the door closed with my booted foot.
I would not have thought there would be such advanced medical facilities on Earth…so maybe it was on John Smith’s spaceship that Lydia saw something similar.
I grit my teeth against the continuing harm he has caused.
It is only when I have returned Lydia to her chair at the kitchen table that her struggling subsides. Her breathing does not return to normal, though. I have another idea, but—scudding fek!
“You are going to hate me for this,” I tell her, partly because I cannot believe what I am about to do and partly because I want her to hate me.
I want her to be so furious that she cannot keep panicking.
I want her to be so furious that she draws a deep, strong breath into her lungs so that she can berate me with the full force of her Lydia-ness.
With great daring, I drop to my knees and kiss her.
Technically, I do not know how to kiss. It is a Human custom I have never experienced. But I have seen my brothers kiss their Mates, and I have some idea of what it is they do.
Lydia stiffens, her back rigid. A good sign?
I move my lips against hers. Nothing about this feels natural. Embarrassment creeps its way up my spine, mingling with my own worry and weakening my resolve. Mayhaps this was a ridiculous idea. Mayhaps—
Lydia grabs my shoulders, pressing closer, molding herself to my chest. And then she is kissing me in return, and all my worry and self-doubt vanish.
So this is kissing. It is better than anything I have imagined.
Her skin is soft, her body malleable. I hold her tighter for the sheer pleasure of feeling my fingers sink into her flesh.
The differences between scales and skin are threatening to drive me wild.
Lydia is so smooth and soft and small, everything in contrast to the size and strength of her personality.
She is in my arms, yet I am filled with a craving for…more. I am a starving male, hungry for more kissing. More touching. More skin.
I fumble with the hem of her shirt, slipping a hand underneath and learning the shape of her spine. With another hand, I card my fingers through her pink hairs, relishing the silk, and with my third hand, I grasp the back of her neck, holding her to me—and never wanting to let her go.
And then the scent of her desire peaks, flooding my senses.
It is breathtaking in its intensity. My cock stirs in response, pressing against my slit, desperate for release.
It would have me throw Lydia to the floor and thrust into her wet heat.
I would have me tie her to my bed, to keep her from ever leaving.
“Stay.”
“What?” She pulls back.
“Akh—” I had not planned on saying that aloud. All the emotions I have tried so long to keep secret have pushed their way to the surface, emboldened by her physical reaction to our kiss. “Stay,” I repeat, firming my voice.
“You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve got a life back home.” She pushes on my shoulders, releasing me. And I sit back on my heels.
“You could have a life here.”
“If I asked you to come back with me, would you give up all of this? Your house? Your farm?”
“Yes.” My answer surprises us both.
Silence is heavy on my shoulders, and then Lydia rolls her eyes. “Stop being an ass, Killan. I’m not panicking anymore.”
“I have an ass,” I say, confused.
“No. I mean, stop joking around. Stop saying random shit to make me feel better. It worked already, so you can stop now.”
“I would never joke about such things.”
“I said stop.” She keeps her smile in place by sheer force of will, but there is steel in her voice. It is a warning, and it is a knife to my gut—a self-inflicted wound, for I knew what her answer would be before I asked, yet I insisted on asking anyway, half delusional after a single kiss.
“Thank you for helping me. But that’s as far as this”—she points between us with a quivering finger—“goes.”
“I do not need your thanks,” I say through clenched teeth, as I have reminded her often before. It is my duty and my pleasure to care for her. I do not need her gratitude. Do not want her gratitude.
For another heartbeat, there is a stilted silence.
Lydia scrutinizes me as closely as I am scrutinizing her, and I see the exact moment when she makes a conscious decision to take offense to what I have said.
She draws herself up, lengthening her spine, clenching her jaw.
And I realize in this second that she is using her anger as a shield.
It does not matter if she is directing her anger at me or at Chloe or at herself. It is not true anger.
Her panic was real.
Her desire was real.
Her pain is real.
Her anger is a shield.
“You’re an infuriatingly stubborn man,” she hisses. “I can thank you if I bloody well want to. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
“You can.” I stand, too. Her anger I can deal with. It was her panic that terrified me. So I do something else I have never done before. I turn the corners of my mouth up in a Human smile, flashing her my sharp teeth.
Her glare darkens. “Oh fuck off, Killan! I don’t have time for this. I should be working. I should be researching. There’s no way I’m not leaving.” And she storms downstairs, screaming her false rage.