Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I suppose it is a nice day for a nervous breakdown.
That must be why I am currently outside my healing tent. Standing under all three suns and their various rays.
Alright. Pacing under all three suns.
Well. Me and Rask’s mutt, apparently. He’s been circling this yard for the last hour, alternating between chuffing at interlopers and casting me judgmental glances.
His point is well taken.
I’ve clearly lost my grip on reality.
The holotab in my left hand can barely compete with the glaring daylight. I squint through my speks, bringing the thin piece of tech closer to my face.
Drakosian Evolution and Technological Integration, the Galactic Council archive file proclaims. A bold reminder that I’ve yet to make it past the title and thesis statement. Despite hours of “studying.”
Unacceptable. This reading is imperative—and I spent far too much of last night with my tails wrapped around my cocks, trying to eradicate the memory of the human and her scent before I attempted to sleep.
A failure on both counts, I’m afraid.
“You’ll wear your claws down to nubs.”
The withered voice behind me is too familiar. I pause, knowing I’ve been caught. My face lands somewhere between a grimace and a scowl. “Good day, ma’am.”
But I don’t say the words in Roktusian. Instead, they come out as human English.
Which is even more damning.
“Hmph,” comes the reply. Mortana follows her huff with muttered Roktusian. “Care to explain yourself?”
Mortana nods at the tent behind us. Knowing I know that she knows who is on the other side of the navy-blue flaps.
I lie anyway.
“I’m simply taking in the air,” I reply, adjusting my reading frames. “It is…” unseasonably warm, dusty as all the hells, and much too fucking bright out here “… lovely.”
Her wrinkled, plated brow arches. “Cylus, you are aware that I was there the day your mam birthed you, yes? And therefore know that you have never enjoyed sunlight? Or felt a single urge to ‘take in the air’?”
Like I said: caught.
Still, I grumble, “Can a male not change his mind?”
Mortana laughs. “That is all you lot can do, in my experience.” Disappointment squashes her lips into a tight line. “But, truly, Cylus. You expect me to believe such obvious shit?”
I shouldn’t be surprised. The entire monarchy relies on my grandmother’s ability to see through other people’s lies and suss out their motivations.
This is more complex than a simple right-or-wrong dilemma, though.
I honestly didn’t mean to end up here. I left my healing tent to seek out one of the cadets—but on my way back, an unmistakable aroma caught my attention.
By the time I reached this part of the zvorn, it was full of soldiers, loitering to catch the omega’s scent.
I probably should have let them be. What business of mine is it if they want to fill their heads with her pretty perfume and go home to stroke their cocks? Didn’t I do the same gods-damned thing last night?
… and the night before that?
I couldn’t leave them alone, though. Not when I knew that Sofi was within, innocently completing the lessons I insisted on for her.
Fighting off the first few males only took a few minutes anyhow. The last four slunk off when they realized I was in one of my moods.
My grandmother eyes the smear of dark blue blood dried on my wrist. I scowl at her, snapping, “I am a healer, madam.”
Her second eyebrow joins the first. “Which is why you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Correct. Again.
My shoulders slump on a sigh. I don’t feel good about lingering here. But I simply cannot find a way to leave.
What if Sofi is harmed during their sparring? What if Rask finally loses control of his impulses or goes into a rut?
And what in the name of Stelaris is making the human smell so fucking perfect today?
Mortana narrows her eyes at the General’s preferred training tent, releasing a deep breath of her own. “She asked to study under you… and you agreed. Now I find you out here. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were developing an attachment.”
The thought is laughable. I haven’t ever formed an attachment to anyone. That is how I excel at my job. Why I am a sought-after researcher and our liaison for all Galactic Council medical data.
And yet…
A whine sounds from inside Rask’s tent. I hear his answering growl, and my fur stands on end. Both tails whip behind me, audibly snapping at the pale pink ground.
My grandmother watches me stiffen. “Are you well, Cylus? Your horns have paled.”
I’m not sure. Carnal need and general fascination toward the omega are understandable. But this? The sick seethe in my guts?
What in Morfu’s hells is it?
Mortana startles. Shock flies across her features before fracturing into grim certainty. “You are worried about her.”
I am not.
The thought comes with another stab to the stomachs. Guilt, this time.
Because, gods-dammit. She’s right.
I’m worried about the human.
Lingering out here, with no work being done and no company, aside from Rask’s hoxud… because I cannot bear the thought of being all the way in my tent if Sofi is hurt.
It’s worse than the necessary concern any good healer would have. Deeper. Different.
I think about her laughing eyes and the adorable way she blinks when she’s processing new information.
The endless vein of her sparkling curiosity.
The warmth of her little smiles—no matter how sarcastic.
How fast her mind works to keep up with our world, and how, despite that, she lacks even a drop of my arrogance.
How could I ever let harm come to a creature like her?
I cannot.
The answer echoes through my alarmingly blank mind, reverberating off its walls. Mortana hobbles closer, setting a weathered hand on my arm. Her gaze takes on a meaningful edge.
“Perhaps it is best if you go,” she intones, each word sinking into my stomachs like stones. “And we’ll pretend I never saw you here at all.”