Chapter 7
Chloe
I stared at Nansar, trying to reconcile what he'd just told me. A prisoner. Someone the universe had locked away.
It should have frightened me. Should have sent me running in the opposite direction.
But standing there, watching the way he held himself—shoulders squared, chin level, meeting my gaze without flinching—I felt something else entirely.
There was a quiet dignity in his confession, a raw honesty that cut through all my defenses.
And then it hit me. The contrast. The bitter, twisted irony of it all.
Nansar stood before me, admitting his past without excuses or justifications.
Meanwhile, Declan Hewes walked free. Declan, who I knew—knew—had destroyed lives.
Who'd hurt people in ways that left scars you couldn't see.
Who wore thousand-dollar suits and smiled for cameras at charity galas while his victims suffered in silence.
Declan had never seen the inside of a cell. Never faced a judge. Never paid for a single goddamn thing he'd done, because money and connections built better walls than any prison.
When I looked at Declan, all I saw was a monster wearing human skin.
When I looked at Nansar, I saw someone who'd faced consequences. Who carried the weight of his actions in the set of his shoulders, in the careful way he chose his words. There was remorse there. Real remorse. The kind that changed you from the inside out.
"You don't seem like..." I started, then stopped, unsure how to finish without sounding like an idiot.
"Like a criminal?" A slight smile tugged at his mouth, though it didn't quite reach those blue-green eyes.
The expression softened his features, made him look less like an alien warrior and more like.
.. just a man. "I suppose that depends on who's writing the laws.
Yes, I did what they accused me of. But I'm not that male anymore. "
No bitterness. No excuses. Just a weary acceptance that made something in my chest tighten and twist.
Maybe I was being naive. Maybe I was letting a gorgeous face and mesmerizing eyes cloud my judgment.
Maybe this was exactly how predators worked—they made you trust them, made you believe in their crap right up until the moment they struck.
I remembered reading somewhere that Ted Bundy was disarmingly charming.
But my instincts—the same ones that had kept me alive through years of undercover work—were screaming something different. They were telling me this man was safe. That beneath whatever he'd done, whatever he'd been, there was something fundamentally good.
"I believe you," I said quietly.
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude. For just a moment, the warrior's mask slipped, and I saw the vulnerability underneath. A man who'd been waiting a long time for someone to see past his mistakes. To see him.
He nodded once, slow and deliberate, then turned his attention to the darkening sky above us.
While Nansar scanned the horizon, I picked my way down to the creek's edge, loose stones skittering beneath my boots. The water rushed over smooth rocks that time had polished to perfection, clear and inviting. I knelt carefully, muscles coiled and ready—old habits from too many ambushes.
That first handful of water hit my tongue like salvation.
Cold. Sweet. Better than the finest champagne I'd ever tasted.
I drank like a woman possessed, cupping my hands again and again, water spilling through my fingers in my desperation.
When the parched, cotton-mouth feeling finally eased, I splashed the icy water on my face and gasped at the shock of it against my overheated skin.
Dirt came away in dark rivulets, and I scrubbed harder at my neck and arms, watching the evidence of this nightmare day swirl away downstream.
The cut on my forearm had already clotted, and I washed it carefully.
The edges of the wound had drawn together, the angry red already fading to pink.
Pulling the knife from my pocket, I cut another strip of fabric from the hem of my pants, washed it, then affixed it to the wound.
My jumpsuit was a lost cause. Stiff with sweat and blood—some mine, most belonging to the bastard who'd tried to kill me—the fabric reeked of violence and fear.
I stared longingly at the water, imagining the bliss of stripping down and washing it all away.
Every drop of blood. Every moment of terror.
But hypothermia seemed like a spectacularly stupid way to die after surviving everything else today.
Movement at the water's edge caught my eye—reeds swaying in a rhythm that didn't quite match the breeze. Nansar's warning about the cipic slithered through my mind. I'd never laid eyes on one, but his description painted them as this planet's answer to snakes.
And I really hated snakes.
I scrambled back from the creek's edge, water dripping from my hands. My skin felt marginally human again, even if my clothes remained a biohazard. I'd take the win.
The sun was bleeding out across the horizon now, spilling purple and orange across the sky in a display that would've stolen my breath under different circumstances. Shadows stretched like grasping fingers across the rocky terrain, and the temperature began its inevitable descent.
"Are we pushing through the night?" I asked, fighting to keep the bone-deep exhaustion from my voice.
Every muscle screamed from the pod's brutal landing and that vicious fight.
But if we needed to move, I'd dig deep and find the strength.
God, what I wouldn't give for a couple of modafinil right now.
Nansar shook his head, platinum hair catching the dying light like spun silver.
"No. Too dangerous. The terrain becomes treacherous in darkness.
Even with my enhanced vision, the risk is too great.
And you..." His gaze found mine, something soft and unexpected flickering in those alien eyes, making my pulse stutter. "You need rest."
"How long to the rendezvous point?"
"Many days. We'll be crossing through the mountains, and the path is unforgiving even in full daylight." He surveyed the landscape. "Many predators come to drink here after dark. We need shelter away from the water."
We moved away from the creek, Nansar leading us upstream before angling toward higher ground.
I found myself watching the way he moved—fluid and purposeful, each footfall placed with the precision of someone who'd learned to read terrain like a language.
Starfield ghosted along beside him, her massive form surprisingly silent, occasionally swiveling her head to check on me with those wide, intelligent eyes.
The sound of flowing water faded to a whisper, then disappeared entirely as we picked our way across increasingly rocky ground. My boots scraped against stone, embarrassingly loud compared to Nansar's silent progress.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes, Nansar stopped at a cluster of trees nestled against a rocky outcropping.
The trees themselves made me pause—thick trunks twisted like ancient dancers frozen mid-performance, the bark silvery and faintly luminescent in the dying light, as if they'd swallowed starlight and were slowly releasing it back into the world.
Their branches swept low and wide, tips brushing the ground to create a natural tent.
"Here," Nansar said, his voice low. "This will hide us from view and break the wind."
I had to hand it to him—it was a damn good spot.
The outcropping formed a natural wall at our backs, and the dense canopy created a screen that would conceal us from casual observation.
The ground beneath the trees was surprisingly level, carpeted with something moss-like that compressed softly under my weight.
Most of my FBI career had been spent in concrete jungles—places where concealment meant wedging yourself between dumpsters that reeked of week-old Chinese food and rotting produce, or squatting in abandoned buildings where every surface was tagged with graffiti and the floors were littered with needles and broken glass.
I'd hidden in parking garages that stank of motor oil and exhaust fumes, crouched behind rusted chain-link fences in industrial wastelands, waited in the shadows of fire escapes while targets passed below, close enough to hear their conversations.
I'd learned to read cities like some people read books—knowing instinctively which doorways offered the best sight lines, which abandoned warehouses had squatters who might compromise your position, which alleys were death traps and which had multiple escape routes.
The urban landscape had become a second language to me.
But this? This was like being dropped into a foreign country where I didn't speak the language.
No streetlights to avoid, no security cameras to map, no late-night dog walkers who might spot you and call it in.
Just wilderness—raw and alien and completely outside my training manual.
And yet, weirdly, the fundamentals remained the same.
Find cover. Stay hidden. Survive the night.
I sank down gratefully, my legs shaking with exhaustion. Nansar remained on his feet, eyes sweeping the darkening landscape with the vigilance of a soldier on watch. There was a new tension in his shoulders, a coiled readiness that reminded me he wasn't just some helpful alien—he was a warrior.
"What is it?" I asked, my heart rate kicking up a notch.
He was quiet for a long moment, then turned to face me. Even in the fading light, I could read the concern carved into his features. "I saw red smoke earlier. From the city."
My stomach dropped like a stone. "What does that mean?"