Chapter 6 #2
"I know you fixed a child's toy. I know you could have hurt us when you woke up injured and afraid, but you didn't." She lifted her chin. "I know monsters. I've met plenty in the city. You're not one."
The conviction in her words satisfied him more than it should, but he quickly pushed his satisfaction aside as he worked on the lower buttons of the shirt.
"I will exercise caution during my assessment. Can you provide me with information about the terrain and the ship's location?"
"It's about half a mile north, on the lower slope of the mountain." She watched his hands work the buttons. "The trees hid most of it from view, and that is not a well-traveled area, but if anyone goes looking..."
"Then it is even more important that I assess the damage before discovery becomes likely."
The sides of the shirt wouldn't meet across his chest and he gave up on the remaining buttons. He looked up to find her staring at his hands.
"You're good with your hands," she said, then seemed to realize that she'd spoken aloud. More color flooded her cheeks. "I mean—for someone so large. You're very precise."
"Tandroki military training emphasizes fine motor control alongside combat capability. A warrior must be able to repair a ship's guidance system as easily as they wield a blade."
"That makes sense." She didn't move away, despite the minimal space between them. "Do all your people train that way?"
"All who serve in the military. It is... expected of certain bloodlines."
"Like yours."
"Yes."
"You don't sound happy about it."
The observation was too perceptive, cutting too close to thoughts he had not fully examined himself.
"Happiness is not a relevant factor in duty."
"How sad."
He studied her face, trying to parse the emotion behind her words. She was sad for him? Did she pity him? But instead there was something fierce, almost angry, in her eyes.
"You disagree with the principle."
"Of course I disagree. Doing things that make you miserable just because someone expects it—that's no way to live."
"Yet you came to this homestead. You abandoned your work in the city to care for your nephew, despite your clear reluctance."
"That's different."
"How?"
She opened her mouth, closed it, then sighed and tried again. "Because Theo needed me. Because doing something for family is not the same as just following orders because someone told you to."
"Is it not? You also follow the orders of duty and familial obligation. Both constrain our choices."
"You're twisting my words."
"I am clarifying the logical equivalence."
"There's nothing logical about love." She jabbed a finger against his chest, right over his sternum. "I came here because I love my nephew and because my sister trusted me to care for him. That's not the same as doing something you hate because tradition says you should."
The touch burned through the fabric of the shirt. Such a small point of contact, yet his entire being focused on it.
"And if the person giving orders is family? I serve at my father's… expectations.”
Her finger stilled. "Do you love your father?"
"Love is an unnecessary emotion. I respect him. I honor his service and his bloodline."
"That's not what I asked."
No. It was not.
She was still touching him, her finger pressed against his chest, and he could feel his heart beating against her touch. Could she feel it too? The elevated rhythm that defied every discipline he'd been taught?
He should step back and create an appropriate distance between their bodies. He should not be having this conversation with a small female he'd known for less than two days, in a cellar that smelled of earth and preserved vegetables, while wearing her dead brother-in-law's clothes.
Instead, he raised his hand and covered hers where it pressed against his chest. Her breath caught.
"Talia."
"Yes?"
He had no idea what he intended to say, had no framework for the impulse driving his actions.
He knew only that her hand was warm beneath his, that her eyes had gone wide and dark, that the space between them felt charged with something he'd never experienced before.
They were taught that such feelings were merely hormonal responses, ones they had been trained to overcome.
But that clinical term didn't come close to describing what he felt when she looked at him like that.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Soft lips, slightly parted, as if waiting to be kissed.
He had participated in enough cultural briefings to understand the mechanics of a kiss.
A gesture of affection or desire, involving contact between mouths, sometimes including additional stimulation via tongue contact.
He had never wanted to perform the action before.
The desire to do so now was illogical. Completely inappropriate given their respective situations.
He wanted it anyway.
"Klaus?" Her voice had gone quiet, almost breathy.
He forced himself to release her hand. He forced himself to turn away before he could do something catastrophically foolish.
Before he tested whether her lips tasted as sweet as they looked.
Before he could forget every principle of Tandroki discipline and lose himself in the warmth of her presence.
"I need to assess my ship," he said roughly. "Now. Before my judgment becomes further compromised."
She blinked, the moment shattering. "Oh. Right. Yes. The ship."
He moved toward the door, needing distance, needing cold air and the clarity that came from having a concrete task.
"Wait." She caught his arm. "At least let me tell you the safest way to get there. There's a path through the forest that avoids the main road."
He looked down at where her fingers wrapped around his forearm. She followed his gaze and released him quickly.
"Show me."
She led him into the kitchen. Daylight streamed in through a large window above the washing basin, illuminating a space that was far more cluttered than any cooking space he'd ever encountered, but one that felt oddly welcoming.
Dried herbs hung from ceiling hooks. A cast-iron stove occupied one corner, its surface scarred with use.
A wooden table sat beneath another window, two chairs tucked neatly beneath.
"Through here." She crossed to an archway at the far end of the kitchen and he followed, ducking through the doorway into what appeared to be a common living space.
A fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth swept clean.
Mismatched furniture—a worn sofa, two armchairs, a rocking chair—created a semicircle facing the warmth.
It was completely different from the ordered minimalism of a Tandroki room, but there was something appealing about it.
Some of the child's drawings decorated the walls, alongside what appeared to be family portraits. He paused in front of one. A male and a female, smiling, with a small boy between them. The child was younger than Theo's current age, perhaps five or six, but recognizable.
"That's Theo with his parents," she said quietly.
He studied the faces. The man—Willem, who had owned these clothes—had his hand on the boy's shoulder in a protective gesture. The female had Talia’s coloring but the resemblance ended there.
Not just because of the differences in their body types, but where Talia's expression typically carried worry, this female radiated contentment.
"Your sister."
"Yes. Sarah. She was—" Her voice caught. "She was good at this. At making a home, at being what Theo needed. I'm just trying to fill shoes that were never made for me."
He turned to face her. "You make the effort despite your uncertainty. That is not failure."
She looked up at him, and he saw tears gathering in her eyes.
"You're very kind, for someone who claims emotions are illogical."
"I did not claim kindness. I stated an observable fact."
A laugh broke through her tears, watery but genuine. "Right. Just stating facts."
The sound of her laughter did something to his chest, made that unnamed sensation expand until it felt like it might crack his ribs from the inside.
He needed to leave. He needed to assess the ship and determine how to leave this primitive planet as quickly as possible.
But standing in this small, warm, cluttered room, looking at a female who cried and laughed in the same breath, who had given up everything for a child who blamed her for it, who saw him as something other than a weapon or a disappointment—
Leaving felt harder than it should.