Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
AIRIK
The madness his progenitor had been afflicted with—the one Aelior had warned would plague all morazir if they lived long enough—had finally caught Airik. Why else had he walked past all the suitable places to tend to the human instead of taking her where he did?
He could have tended to her outside her own craft, in the field where his ship had crashed. Or by the rock wall, far from his weapons and tools, which could wipe out a small city in the wrong, scared hands.
Nothing but the Madness could have compelled him to do what he did. To bring her into his ship, lay her on his cot, and gently place her head on his pillow.
He’d even—stupidly—left her alone for nearly an hour. After locking the ship down, he had run back to hers to collect the out-of-place items he thought were her personal things—a purple bag with gold stitching and boxes labeled meals.
When he returned and confirmed she was still alive, he went through her bag, removing anything dangerous.
He confiscated a broken glass screen and a small stick that left marks on his hand—too sharp to leave in her possession.
He left her bundles of fabric, several tubes filled with gel, and a small bag filled with what appeared to be trash.
He even, generously or foolishly—both, most likely, left her a colorful tub that, when he opened it, struck him with such a strong floral scent, even through the suit, that he nearly fainted.
He checked on her every few minutes, kneeling beside her, to see if she had woken. What would he do with her? Airik was forged to destroy. He wasn’t made to comfort or heal.
She didn’t wake.
His breath fogged the visor as he looked at her unconscious form. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled off his helmet, needing air.
The human lay still, softly gasping. Protocol demanded that he let her die. She wasn’t part of the mission. He shouldn’t have even pursued her craft. He should have waited for orders, as Vorn had said, and decommissioned Ed’un along with every trace of her.
Sickness rippled through him at the thought.
Airik’s only remaining option was to put her out of her misery and kill her himself, then wait for the extraction team, which could take hours—maybe days considering the solar storms and portal troubles.
A heaviness pressed on his chest as he glanced between the human and his gun, still powered at his belt. The best outcome was that she’d die right now. The worst was that she’d live, burdening him with a life he wasn’t equipped to handle.
In his haste to get her body off his, he hadn’t positioned her properly. Her arm hung awkwardly off the cot.
For her own safety and well-being—no matter that neither of those things was his concern—he had to touch her.
He swallowed hard, pushing her arm closer to her side, transfixed by her translucent pink fingernails. Smooth, soft hands with no scars, except for the natural texture and irregularities of the skin. This woman didn’t wield weapons—she bore none of the marks.
For an instant, he let his bare fingers slip between hers.
An accident.
Deciding he should continue to look for injuries, he moved down to check her feet, pulling off the cloth covering her left foot.
He gasped. A red, swollen welt encircled her ankle. Not wanting to cause her more pain, he grabbed cooling bandages from the supply cabinet. He gently wrapped her foot, then set it down to check the other.
Thankfully, her right foot was uninjured. But that was only a passing relief because her lips were still blue.
Airik cradled her foot, the entire thing fitting into his hand. Fascinated by the rise of her delicate arch, he ran a finger along the sole of her foot.
Her toes curled.
His breath froze. Cautiously, he cast his gaze upward, fully expecting to hear her scream in the next instant.
But her lids didn’t even twitch, staying closed.
Now driven by panic that she hadn’t roused, Airik shamelessly reached for her face. He caught himself just short of touching her hair.
What was wrong with him? He’d not two cycles ago beaten six people to death and never once cared for their faces.
Or all those he’d killed before. When he dreamed of them, it was always of a shapeless, bloody mass of exposed bone and flesh.
Never a face. Never a person. Why did he care about this one?
Something odd beat in his chest as he looked at her face, half-hidden by hair. Maybe it was hope. It’d been so long since he’d felt it so strongly that it felt a little like fear.
But mostly want. He wanted her to wake. He wanted her to part her lips and speak, so he’d know if he’d understand. So that the few memories he had of his progenitors weren’t all wasted. So that the words they’d taught him weren’t lies or mistakes but something that mattered.
His lips twitched, craving to blow the hair out of her eyes. All that did was draw attention to her lips, making him wonder how they’d look if they pursed to blow her own hair away from her face.
Ulliel, save me. What have I done? Instead of recovering, his mind would be even more ruined by the time extraction came.
Still, deciding at the very least that he should check for injuries so she didn’t bleed out on his only cot, he drew in a deep breath, then pushed the hair out of the human’s face.
Heat flooded him. He tilted his head, taking her in. As if that would ease the crushing tension in his chest as he looked upon her face. It didn’t. But he found himself leaning closer, wanting the hurt to ravage him more.
To Airik’s great and utter distress, he found her beautiful. Every thought after that realization was born in an irrational part of his mind, where curiosity and wonder reigned.
There was nothing specific about her that he liked.
In fact, each one of her features, considered independently, was wrong—too delicate, too colorful, too soft.
But as a whole, each part fit together, from her nose to her rounded jaw to her slightly parted lips.
As though drawn from a surreal dream where things were strange but stunningly so.
Leaning even closer—dangerously close—he smoothed her thick hair back so it stayed out of the way. With the tip of his finger, he traced the arch of her dark brow. Then he brushed the black lashes resting against her cheeks, hoping to rouse some base instinct.
Nothing. Not even a flutter.
Her cheeks were now pink, and her lips weren’t so blue.
In contrast to his own skin, hers was a light golden shade.
The contrast of his stone-gray skin against her cheek sent a shiver down his spine.
A little wonderful. Mostly terrifying. Gazing at the human’s face was like watching an unfamiliar planet’s sunset for the first time—uncanny yet pleasing.
He liked her face. Whatever she was, he knew she was a thing of beauty.
And forbidden, he reminded himself. Untouched. Untaken. Unconquered. If she lives, she belongs to the Veynari, just as you do.
Growling, he looked around, then immediately felt foolish. The Veynari weren’t here. Communications had failed. For now, he didn’t have to be a morazir. He could be just a man—one who could show mercy to another, for once in his life.
The baggy covering over her body had dozens of seams, but he couldn’t find any buckles or buttons, only a metal strip that didn’t open easily. Not wanting to waste time, he mumbled an apology, then cut open the white covering.
“I fix. I sew,” he told her, his heart sinking when she didn’t respond.
As soon as he pulled apart her suit, his mouth went dry, shamefully aware of her shape. Her tight orange shirt did nothing to hide the full swell of her breasts. Even her pants, loose at the ankles, hugged her plump thighs and rounded hips.
Fearing he’d snap under the pressure to not feel anything, Airik bit his lip, letting his fangs sink in until it stung. He pulled off her suit, leaving it neatly folded at her feet.
She wore her hair twisted into a long rope. He rested it beside her, running his fingers over each twist. Like silk. If he unbound it to get a better look, did he have any hope of retwisting it so she wouldn’t know?
No, he wouldn’t. He forced his gaze down, where it caught on a silver cross hanging from a chain around her neck.
His hand flew to his gun.
No, he thought despondently—a superstitious symbol.
The only reason he knew of humans at all was the infamous failed mission.
His father had spoken of it often. When two morazir had been sent to Urrth to collect volunteers for genetic cataloging, they’d been met with both awe and hostility, thought to be fallen ayngels and a sign of the end times.
As part of his forging, he’d been forced to listen to the final transmissions from that mission.
To demonstrate to candidates what happened when a morazir forgot their purpose as unconquered and untaken.
The morazir had tried to bargain with the humans but lacked the words.
It had ended with the deaths of two morazir, the destruction of an entire human settlement, and Urrth communications wiped clean of Veynari presence to stop humans from searching.
But at present, this human posed no risk. Her leg was injured, and he could subdue her with the effort it took to yawn.
A rectangle lay lower on her chest, attached to a ribbon around her neck. Despite his efforts not to touch her, his finger brushed against the fullest part of her chest. The rise of her breath pressed against his hand, filling him with heat as if her lungs had fed his.
He gripped the card tightly, forcing his eyes to stay on the tiny thing so his gaze wouldn’t stray back to her.
An identification tag—like the ones put on combat beasts. It showed a human with large, dark eyes and a rope of dark hair slung over her shoulder. With a crooked, charming smile. The photo was too small to capture much detail, but he had no doubt this was her.
Below her picture were words he could read but that had no meaning. Shaw, Nora.
“Sss-haw-no-ra,” he said quietly, testing the words.