Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sleep wouldn’t come.
Corinne lay in the darkness, listening to Mikoz’s soft breathing from the crib and Anya’s occasional sleepy murmurs.
The celebration dinner had ended hours ago, but her mind refused to quiet enough for rest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mikoz burning with fever.
Felt the terrible heat of his small body against her chest. Heard his labored breathing and the frightened catch in Anya’s voice when she’d come running for help.
They’d almost lost him.
The thought kept circling through her mind like a predator stalking its prey.
So close to tragedy. So close to having this fragile family she’d built torn apart by something as random and cruel as a respiratory infection.
Adrenaline still hummed through her veins, keeping her alert and watchful despite exhaustion dragging at her bones.
Perhaps a walk through the ship’s corridors would help her burn off enough excess energy for her body to finally surrender to sleep.
She slipped quietly from the bed, the cool deck plating beneath her bare feet sending a shiver up her spine as she padded toward the door.
She paused there to glance back at the sleeping forms. Mikoz looked so peaceful, his small chest rising and falling with perfect rhythm, tail curled around his favorite blanket, no trace of the fever that had nearly—
Stop. Dwelling on what could have happened wouldn’t help anyone.
The corridors were dim for the night cycle with just enough illumination to navigate safely.
Most crew members would be sleeping now, the ship running on minimal staff.
It was peaceful, quiet, exactly what she needed to settle her jangling nerves.
Except her feet didn’t carry her on a random circuit.
Instead she found herself slipping into the area of the ship where Selik had been spending his nights since giving up his quarters for her family.
She should turn back. Let him sleep instead of bothering him with her restless energy and need for… what? Comfort? Reassurance? Something she couldn’t quite name but desperately wanted? But her feet kept moving until she stood outside his office door.
She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. This was crossing a line somehow, seeking him out in the middle of the night after their previous fiery encounter. Would he think she was here for more of that?
Am I?
The door slid open before she could decide whether to knock or flee. Selik stood in the opening, dressed only in a pair of loose sleep pants, his muscular chest bare and gleaming in the low light of a desk lamp. He studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“I sensed you standing there,” he said quietly.
“Sensed me?”
“I have become… attuned to your presence.” He stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. “Are the children well?”
“They’re fine. Both sleeping peacefully.
” She moved into his office. Large, functional, efficient–and sterile.
Very different from the cozy chaos that had transformed his quarters.
Did he enjoy the serenity of his office, or did he miss their…
family when he was here? “But I couldn’t sleep.
I kept thinking about… about what could have happened if we hadn’t gotten Mikoz help in time. ”
His face softened as he moved over the small formal seating area. “Fear does not always fade with danger.”
“No. It doesn’t.” She settled onto the stiff couch beside him, and they sat in silence for a moment, close but not quite touching. The space between them felt charged somehow, like the air before a thunderstorm when electricity built to dangerous levels.
“You lost your mate and child to the Red Death.” It wasn’t quite a question, but he nodded. “Tell me about them?” She reached out and took his hand. “If you want to. If it doesn’t hurt too much.”
“It always hurts. But perhaps the hurt has purpose now.” He studied their joined hands, seeming to draw strength from the contact.
“My mate’s name was Kessa. Our families were close and we grew up together.
Our mating was… traditional. Expected. We were good together, my mate and I, but there was always an element of obligation woven through the connection. ”
She stayed quiet, giving him space to continue at his own pace.
“Kessa was… gentle. Patient.” A small smile ghosted across his features. “She loved growing things. Our home was filled with plants from every region of Ciresia, each one carefully tended and coaxed to thrive.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was. And when our daughter Lira was born, Kessa taught her about plants and patience and finding joy in small moments. Not always easy when she had inherited my stubbornness as well.” His smile faded.
“Lira was five when the Red Death came, and I wasn’t with her in the end.
The Council had summoned all of our warriors to the capitol, trying desperately to find a solution.
But there was none, and their efforts meant I was not with my family at the end. ”
Her throat tightened at the pain in his voice.
“I came home and they were gone and I was alone in a house filled with dead plants because no one had watered them and I could not—I could not—”
She moved without thinking, pulling him into an embrace that probably looked absurd given their size difference. But he folded around her anyway, his face pressed against her shoulder while his body shook with grief too long suppressed.
She held him while he mourned. Stroked her hands over his back and murmured wordless comfort and let him break apart in the safety of her arms. Eventually the shaking subsided. Selik pulled back, scrubbing at his face with visible embarrassment.
“Forgive me. I did not mean to—”
“Stop.” She cupped his face between her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. “You don’t apologize for grief. Not to me. Not ever.”
“It has been years. I should be past this by now.”
“There’s no timeline for mourning someone you loved. The grief changes shape, but it doesn’t just disappear because enough time has passed.” She stroked her thumbs over his cheekbones, feeling the subtle texture of his skin. “And you’ve been carrying this alone for too long.”
He leaned into her touch like a man starving for contact.
“After they died, I left Ciresia. I hated the Council for calling me away when they needed me, and I could not bear to remain in that house, surrounded by reminders of everything I had lost. I joined the Patrol because it gave me a purpose that did not require emotional vulnerability.”
“Did it help?”
“It gave me something to do. Somewhere to direct the rage and helplessness that had nowhere else to go.” His hands came up to cover hers where they still framed his face. “But it did not heal anything. Just… postponed the sorrow until I was strong enough to face it.”
“And now?”
“Now you and the children have reminded me that life continues even after loss. That building something new does not dishonor what came before.”
Tears pricked her own eyes. She understood that guilt too well, the feeling that moving forward somehow betrayed the memory of those who’d been left behind.
“After my husband died, I grieved. But I also felt guilty because our marriage had been more about companionship than romance, and I kept wondering if there was something wrong with me that I couldn’t feel more devastated.”
“Grief is not a competition. Different relationships inspire different responses.”
“I know. Intellectually, I know that. But it didn’t stop me from feeling like I’d failed him somehow.” She picked at the hem of her tunic, not meeting his eyes. “And then there was Anya. She was twelve when David died, angry at the world and especially angry at me for being there when he was not.”
“She seems to have softened toward you now.”
“Trauma has a way of clarifying priorities. When you’re fighting to survive, petty resentments don’t seem as important.
” She managed a weak smile. “Not that I’m grateful for the abduction exactly, but at least something good came from it.
Anya and I have built something real now instead of just going through the motions. ”
“The groundwork was already there,” he said gently. “She was grateful you were there for her, even if she couldn’t express it.”
He reached out and pulled her against his side, tucking her into the shelter of his larger body. She went willingly, pressing her face against his chest and breathing in his scent—something clean and spicy that she’d come to associate with safety.
“We are both carrying scars from losses that changed us in fundamental ways. But perhaps we fit together better as a result.”
“Is that what this is? Broken pieces finding new configurations?”
“Among other things.” His hand stroked over her hair, the gesture so tender it made her heart ache. “I meant what I said before. What I feel for you is not an obligation or an attempt to reclaim the past through someone new. It is want, s’kara. It is need. Pure and terrifying and absolutely real.”
She pulled back enough to look up at him. His eyes held hers with an intensity that stole her breath. The connection that had been there since the moment they met and the hunger that had been building ever since, growing stronger with every shared meal and quiet conversation and brief touch.
“I want you too.” She reached up and traced the line of his jaw, fascinated by the nubbed texture of his skin. So different from human smoothness, but so intriguing. “I want this. Whatever we can build together, even if it’s messy and complicated and doesn’t follow any traditional patterns.”
He made a sound low in his chest that vibrated against her palm. “S’kara.”
“Kiss me.”