Chapter 5 #2
I saw it play out in my mind: Nansar's fingers pressing against my skin, holding my arm still.
The heat of his touch. The weight of his grip.
My body locked down, every muscle going rigid, and suddenly I wasn't here anymore.
I was back there, with hands that hurt instead of helped, with touch that took instead of gave.
No. No, I couldn't. I couldn't.
"I'll do it myself," I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended.
Nansar's eyes met mine, and I braced for argument. For insistence that he could do it better, faster, with less damage. For the inevitable push against my boundaries that always came when men decided they knew what was best.
Instead, he simply nodded. "All right."
The acceptance—the lack of pressure—nearly undid me more than the thought of the tracker itself.
I pulled the small blade from my pocket, the one I'd taken from the escape pod.
The metal caught the filtered light, winking like a promise.
Or a threat. My hands were steadier than I expected as I unscrewed the cap from one of the water pouches and poured a stream over the blade, watching the liquid sheet across the metal and drip onto the purple moss below.
The tracker sat just beneath the skin of my left forearm, a few inches below the crook of my elbow. I could feel it when I pressed down—a small, hard lump no bigger than a grain of rice. Such a tiny thing to cause so much damage.
I pressed the tip of the blade against my skin.
The first cut was shallow, tentative. A thin line of red welled up, bright against my skin, but I hadn't gone deep enough. The tracker remained buried, mocking me.
"Deeper," Nansar said quietly. Not a command. Just information.
I gritted my teeth and pressed harder.
The pain was immediate and sharp. Blood flowed more freely now, warm and slick, coating my fingers and making the blade handle slippery. I had to adjust my grip, my jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack.
The blade scraped against something hard. The tracker.
A sound escaped me—half gasp, half whimper—and I hated myself for it. But God, it hurt. The pain radiated up my arm in waves, each pulse of my heartbeat sending fresh agony through the wound. My hand shook as I widened the incision, trying to expose enough of the tracker to get it out.
Blood ran down my arm in rivulets, dripping from my elbow onto the moss. The purple fibers darkened where the drops landed, drinking in the red like they were thirsty for it.
"Almost there," Nansar murmured. He'd moved closer—not touching, but near enough that I could feel his presence like a physical thing. Grounding me.
I dug the tip of the blade beneath the tracker and levered it up. The device resisted, embedded in muscle and tissue, and I had to bite back a scream as I worked it free. Fresh blood welled up, hot and thick, and for a moment I thought I might pass out from the pain.
Then it was loose.
The tracker slipped free of the wound with a wet, obscene sound, landing in my blood-slicked palm. It was smaller than I'd imagined—a tiny cylinder of dark metal, innocuous and deadly all at once. This little thing had led them to me. Had gotten Captain Karvat and his entire crew killed.
I stared at it, my vision swimming, my arm screaming in protest.
"Give it to me," Nansar said.
I held it out, my hand trembling. He plucked it from my palm without making contact with my skin—a careful, deliberate avoidance that I noticed even through the haze of pain. He moved to a nearby rock, placed the tracker on its flat surface, and brought a stone down on it with controlled force.
The tracker shattered with a satisfying crunch.
He ground the stone against the fragments, pulverizing them into unrecognizable debris, then swept the remains into the undergrowth with the edge of his boot.
When he turned back, I was still standing there, blood running freely down my arm, the wound gaping and raw. The pain had settled into a deep, throbbing ache.
Nansar crouched beside me—still not touching—and pulled his own blade free. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the hem of my jumpsuit.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He cut a long strip of fabric from the bottom of the jumpsuit with quick, efficient movements, then folded it into a makeshift bandage. "Hold your arm out," he said softly.
I extended my arm, watching as he wrapped the cloth around the wound.
His fingers moved gently, pulling the fabric tight enough to staunch the bleeding but not so tight it would cut off circulation.
He never once touched my skin. Even when the bandage slipped and he had to readjust, he managed to avoid contact, his movements careful and deliberate.
It was such a small thing. Such a simple act of respect.
But it cracked something open inside my chest, something I'd kept locked and barred for so long I'd forgotten it was there.
When he tied off the bandage, he stepped back, giving me space. "That should hold until we can get you proper medical attention."
I looked down at my arm, at the blood-soaked fabric already darkening to rust-brown, and felt the weight of what I'd just done settle over me.
The tracker was gone. Destroyed. I'd cut it out of my own flesh rather than let someone else touch me, and Nansar had let me.
Had helped me without pushing, without demanding, without making me feel broken for needing the distance.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words inadequate but all I had.
He met my eyes, and something passed between us—an understanding, maybe. An acknowledgment of boundaries given and respected.
"You are the bravest female I have ever met, Chloe," he said finally, truth ringing through his tone.
The sound of my name on his lips sent an unexpected jolt through me—intimate somehow, despite everything. The way he said it, with that slight accent curling around the syllables, made it sound like something precious.
I found myself watching the precise shape of his mouth as he formed the words. The way his lips moved around the vowels, the slight press of his tongue against his teeth for the L sound. There was something about it that felt...
Wait.
I wasn't hearing his words filtered through my translator. There was no delay. No artificial smoothness. Just his voice, rich and resonant, speaking my language with perfect clarity.
"You're speaking English," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Actual English. Not translated."
Nansar's expression shifted—surprise flickering across his features before settling into something softer. Almost vulnerable. "Yes."
"How?" I stepped closer without thinking, my injured arm forgotten, my curiosity overriding my usual caution. "You speak it naturally, like... like you grew up with it."
He was quiet for a moment, his luminous eyes studying my face as if weighing how much to reveal. "My mother is human."
The words hung between us, simple and profound.
"Your mother," I repeated slowly, trying to reconcile this information with the towering, horned warrior standing before me. With his ivory skin and alien beauty, his otherworldly grace. "You're half-human."
"Yes." He said it matter-of-factly, but I caught something in his tone—a guardedness, maybe. As if he expected judgment or rejection.
Instead, I felt something inside me shift and resettle, like tectonic plates finding a new alignment.
I knew it was possible, of course. President Bradford herself was mated to an alien named Rickon. But knowing it was possible and standing face-to-face with the living proof of it were two entirely different things.
"So you grew up speaking English," I said, still processing. "With your mother."
"My mother made sure of it." A ghost of a smile touched his lips—fond and sad all at once. "She said if I was going to be part of both worlds, I needed to truly understand both. Not just speak the words, but comprehend the meaning behind them."
"She must be brave," I said quietly. "Your mother."
"She is." Pride rang clear in his voice. "The bravest person I know." He paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, "Until I met you."
The compliment hit differently now, weighted with new meaning. He wasn't just some alien warrior offering empty flattery. He was someone who'd grown up watching his human mother navigate an alien world, who understood exactly what kind of courage that required.
He turned then, resuming his path through the forest without another word. I watched him for a moment—the way he moved with such fluid precision, each footfall deliberate and nearly soundless despite his size. Careful not to leave tracks.
I tried to follow his lead, placing my feet where his had been, mimicking the careful distribution of weight. My first few steps were clumsy by comparison—a snapped twig here, the rustle of disturbed leaves there. But I was a quick study, and survival had always been about adaptation.
Nansar didn't look back, but I caught the slight tilt of his head—listening, I realized. Monitoring my progress without making me feel scrutinized. It was oddly considerate, giving me space to learn without the pressure of his direct attention.
By the time we'd covered another hundred yards, I'd found a rhythm.
Choose the next foothold. Distribute weight gradually.
The forest seemed to accept our passage more readily now, the sounds of our movement blending into the ambient whisper of wind through leaves and the distant calls of whatever creatures made this place their home.
"What is your name?" I asked, realizing with a flush of embarrassment that I'd been thinking of him as handsome horned guy for the last few minutes.
"Nansar," he said simply, not looking back, his voice carrying easily over his shoulder.
I tested the name silently, the syllables foreign and exotic on my tongue. It suited him somehow—sharp and strong, with an edge to it.