Chapter 6
Klausan opened his eyes to darkness. Not the absolute void of deep space, but the close, earth-scented dark of the cellar.
His internal chronometer indicated seven hours had passed since Talia had brought him water and broth, and something she called an omelet—another unexpectedly delicious food—and skittered away again, carefully avoiding eye contact.
He'd wanted to demand she remain with him, but he'd decided he needed to concentrate on healing.
He had slept but he had also dreamed—fragmented images of warm brown eyes and a sweet floral scent, of careful hands and impossibly soft skin. The dreams had been… pleasant. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the memory of the dream as he catalogued his physical status.
The pain in his side had diminished to a dull ache.
He flexed his fingers, rotated his shoulders, and tested the muscles of his core.
The nanites had done their work well. His body's enhanced healing capabilities, combined with his medical technology, had accelerated his recovery beyond standard parameters.
He should be pleased. This meant he could begin assessing the damage to his ship, determine what repairs were necessary, and calculate the probability of a successful launch.
Instead, he found himself thinking about the way Talia's shoulder had felt pressed against his chest, the slight tremor in her hands as she'd guided the molecular bonder, and the intake of her breath when their fingers had touched.
No. He should not indulge in such thoughts. He would perform a set of routine exercises to clear his mind and restore his focus.
He sat up, then used the small torch on his belt to find and relight the primitive lantern.
Ducking to avoid the low ceiling beams, he rose to his feet and began the first form.
The movements were as familiar as breathing—more familiar, perhaps, given that breathing required no conscious thought while the forms had been drilled into him through ten thousand repetitions.
Shift weight. Pivot. Strike.
His body moved easily through the familiar sequence. Each movement flowed into the next, a carefully designed series meant to maintain combat readiness and physical conditioning in confined spaces.
Block. Counter. Sweep.
The wound in his side pulled, but not enough to indicate damage. He adjusted his stance, compensating. A Tandroki warrior fought through discomfort. Pain was merely data, information about the body's current state.
Step. Turn. Strike.
His knuckles stopped a hair's breadth from the dirt wall in a perfectly controlled movement.And yet his control had faltered when Talia had looked up at him with those wide, dark eyes, and slipped even more when her scent had filled his senses.
He continued the form, moving faster. Sweat began to bead on his skin despite the cellar's chill.
She had trusted him with her nephew's treasured possession.
She had sat beside him, let him guide her hands, and shared her pain and doubt with a candor that seemed almost reckless.
Did her people always expose their vulnerabilities so readily?
Or was there something specific about her that made her speak truths others would hide?
Pivot. Strike. Block.
His breath came faster now, steam in the cool air. The med kit had sealed his wound, but his body still required fuel to complete the healing process. He would need proper sustenance soon. The food she had provided, while delicious, was insufficient, especially while he was healing.
Yet requesting more seemed... problematic.
He understood her situation well enough to know that she already struggled to feed herself and the child.
Adding his requirements would strain her resources further.
Reciprocity. He had offered it, and he would uphold that commitment. But what did he have that she needed?
The forms completed, he moved into a series of stretches, testing his flexibility and range. His body responded adequately. Not optimal, but functional.
Faint sounds from beyond the wall made him freeze mid-stretch. The scrape of chairs. The clatter of dishes. Low voices, the words indistinct but the tone calmer than earlier in the cellar. Perhaps he should join them…
No. He returned to his exercises, working through a second set, then a third. By the time he finished, his muscles burned pleasantly and his side had loosened further.
He needed to assess the ship's damage and to determine whether repairs were possible, what components might be salvaged or required. He needed to establish whether returning to his father's command was even an option.
Needed to decide whether he wanted it to be.
The thought slithered into his mind, but he quickly pushed it aside.
His wants were irrelevant. His duty was clear.
He was the eldest son of Commander Draxon D'Kringar, heir to a military legacy spanning twelve generations.
His path had been determined before his birth.
That the path led somewhere he increasingly found suffocating was immaterial.
But instead of leaving, he found himself examining the cellar with more attention than he'd previously given it.
The shelves that lined one wall held preserved foods in glass containers—a very small number of containers, confirming his assessment that her resources were limited.
The thought bothered him more than it should.
In the corner, partially hidden by shadow, sat what appeared to be damaged farm equipment.
A broken plow blade. A wheel with several spokes missing.
Items that required repair but had been set aside, probably due to lack of time or resources or both.
He could fix them. The molecular bonder would work on metal as easily as wood.
It would be logical reciprocity for the shelter and sustenance she had provided.
It would also give him a reason to remain here longer. Irrelevant. The ship was his priority. He would assess, repair, and depart.
He fastened his belt back around his waist and was preparing to leave when the cellar door opened. Talia entered and jumped when she saw him, nearly dropping the cloth bundle she was carrying.
"You're up."
"My healing has progressed sufficiently for mobility."
"Right. Of course." She set the bundle on the shelf that had served as his bed. "I brought you some clothes. They were my brother-in-law's. You can't walk around without a shirt."
Her gaze traveled over his shoulders and down across his torso, still gleaming from his exercises. A small pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, and he felt a corresponding tightening in his groin.
By the Horns, what was wrong with him? He needed to leave this place before this strange female completely dismantled the control he had spent a lifetime cultivating.
"Thank you," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He reached for the clothes, deliberately maintaining a space between them. "Perhaps a shirt would be... helpful."
"I'm not sure how well it will fit. He was a big man, but not as big as you."
She was still staring at his chest. Her gaze traced the lines of muscle with an attention that made his skin feel warmer despite the cellar's chill.
He knew he should put on the clothes she brought, but he found himself curiously reluctant to lose that avid gaze.
A Tandroki female would have been far more interested in his lineage or his rank than any physical attributes.
He'd certainly never been looked at like this, as if he were something… edible.
A faint scent reached him, different from the sweet floral aroma he associated with her.
Something richer, deeper, something that might be.
.. desire? He dismissed the thought as illogical.
He had no point of reference for the mating scents of her species.
What he was perceiving was undoubtedly a simple biological response to proximity. Nothing more.
"The clothes?" she prompted, her cheeks flushing a deeper pink.
"Yes. Of course." He pulled on the shirt she'd offered.
It was made of a coarse, dark wool, rough against his skin compared to the smooth fabric of his uniform.
The sleeves ended several inches short of his wrists, and the fabric strained across his shoulders, but it would suffice. His uniform pants were still intact.
"That looks surprisingly good," she said, her eyes still on him. "Better than I expected."
"The fit is adequate," he said, refusing to acknowledge the strange warmth spreading through his chest at her approval.
She nodded and turned towards the door, but he spoke before she could leave.
"I need to assess my ship's damage."
She turned back. "Is that safe? You just healed."
"My recovery is sufficient for basic reconnaissance. I will not attempt repairs today, merely determine what repairs are necessary."
"The wreck is north of here.” She hesitated, biting her lip. "There is a village to the west. If anyone sees you..."
"I will exercise caution."
"Klaus, you don't understand. These people—they're afraid of anything different.
Anything they can't explain." She wrapped her arms around herself as he started trying to button the shirt.
"I know that we are descendants of colonists from beyond the stars but that knowledge has been forgotten in many places and this is one of them.
They would consider you an evil spirit, a monster. "
"An accurate assessment, given my physiological differences."
"You're not a monster."
The certainty in her voice made him pause in the act of fastening the buttons. She stood close enough now that he could see gold flecks in her brown eyes and count the freckles scattered across her nose.
"You cannot know that. We have known each other for less than two solar cycles."