Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle #2)(70)

“How’s the patient?” I ask.

“I have tended Kal’s wounds,” Zila reports. “They are painful but will heal cleanly. He has agreed to Aurora’s suggestion that he should wash off the copious amounts of blood he is … covered in, and then attempt to sleep.”

“Scar’s trying for some downtime as well,” I report. “And radar’s clean.”

“Then we should check news sources for information on the battle,” Zila replies, sliding into her seat and pulling up the displays on the central monitor.

The news is grim.

Reports are filtering in through civilian channels—all we can access—about the clash between the Unbroken and the TDF. There are conflicting accounts of who fired first, casualty numbers, and even the exact location of the battle, but on one thing they all agree: a massive Unbroken fleet is mobilizing and heading toward Terran space. The galaxy is holding its breath, waiting to see what happens next.

Zila’s expression is as unreadable as ever.

Auri looks like she’s going to be sick.

“Well,” I say, switching out the feed for my latest calculations, “I have some good news for a change, at least. I’ve adjusted for drift along our known timeline. If we feed in these course corrections, we should end up exactly where the Hadfield incident occurred.”

Zila’s fingers dance over her console. “Aurora, do you have any premonition as to what we will find?”

“None at all,” Auri mumbles, looking down at her hands. One thumb’s rubbing across her opposite wrist, where a red patch still marks the place the sedation patch was stuck on. When she looks up, it’s to glance back toward the infirmary, where Kal lies. “I don’t know what’s there,” she whispers. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know what happened.” She draws in an unsteady breath. “And I don’t know what I’ll do next.”

Zila and I exchange a long glance. Aurora doesn’t look ready for anything, let alone saving the Milky Way. We’re putting everything on the line—we’ve already sacrificed two of our number—for the uncertain chance she represents. But she’s all we have.

“Tell you what,” I say, making myself cheerful again. “Why don’t you and I get some sleep? Zila can watch over us.”

Our Brain inclines her head. “I will wake Scarlett when I require rest.”

I want to offer to stay up myself, but Zila and I both know I need the downtime. So instead I stand, and offer Auri my hand to pull her up. She takes hold, and when she’s on her feet, I keep her fingers in mine, studying her.

“You look rough,” I tell her.

Her tone is dry. “You, on the other hand, look dapper as ever.”

I use my free hand to smooth back my hair, which instantly springs up into the disastrous mess it was before. “Hug?”

She hesitates, then nods, just the tiniest jerk of her head. So I pull her in and wrap my arms around her. I’m the kind of leggy you get when you spend too much time in zero gee growing up, and she tucks in under my chin just perfectly. My suit probably sticks into her in a couple of places, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

And for a long moment, we just stand there together, her arms around my waist, her cheek on my shoulder, my chin resting on her hair.

When I look up, Zila’s watching us. I wonder what she makes of us all sometimes. How long it’s been since someone hugged her. If anyone ever has.

As we head down the hallway, Aurora lifts one hand to trail it over the closed door to Ty’s room, glancing at it as if she can see right through it, see our missing Alpha inside. She heard it said over and over as we left him behind—Aurora’s the priority, keep her safe. So she’s carrying that with her, as well as the knowledge that everything rests on a power she can’t control. A power that scares her.

“Sleep well, Stowaway,” I tell her as her door hums closed behind her. And then, with a soft sigh, I turn away from my own quarters and toward the infirmary, where my next challenge waits.

The lights in there are dim, and Kal’s resting on a bio-cot, a medi-wrap across one shoulder. He’s bare chested, bruises blossoming across his skin, turned black and gray by the Fold. But the sight of Kaliis Idraban Gilwraeth with no shirt on, even all beat up, makes me want to thank my Maker I’ve lived to see this moment. He’s beautiful. Those sculpted lines and that solid muscle and—I mean, he’s got an eight-pack, and that stupid V that leads down to disappear (tragically) below his belt, both of which are meant to be creatures of myth and legend.

Swoon.

Lucky Auri.

“Is something amiss, Finian?”

I startle when I realize he’s looking right at me, and snap my mouth shut. “Just checking in,” I tell him, sauntering closer and nodding at his biceps. “You got a license for these weapons, sir?”

His brows crowd together in handsome confusion. “I am proficient in weaponry that …” But he trails off, because he can tell he’s missed the point.

“Never mind,” I tell him. “I’ve got a question.”

He somehow knows to be wary, turning to get a better look at me. “Ask.”

“Back on the tug,” I say, gesturing to the spot over his heart where the bruises are blackest, “once I found out the cigarillo case had blocked that Kill shot, and once I stopped thanking the Maker you were alive, I realized I could open the thing.”