Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(20)
She was so close he could count every dark eyelash.
“Yes, we are,” he replied.
He knew how to sew a wound. How to mend bone. He knew the deepest intricacies of flesh and blood, and yet he did not know how to repair himself. That made him insufficient. If his memory core had not been damaged, Ana would not have to endanger herself for him. If he was not there, she would not have to cheat death.
It was logical.
But the way she pressed her forehead against his, and opened her golden-brown eyes, and looked into his as though he was the sun her life orbited around, stopped him from ever saying as much. So he simply stood, his forehead pressed against hers, looking into the face he knew better than his own circuitry—and that he had blueprints for.
She took a deep breath, and finally drew away from him.
“It’s nice to just listen to you for a moment,” she said.
“I did not think I sounded like anything.”
“You sound like a symphony of electrical currents,” she explained, and began to hum, as if in tune with it, and grabbed his hand to dance. She had not stopped smiling yet, and if he told her that there was a 17.3 percent possibility that they were still being followed, he was sure the smile would drop from her lips.
And he did not want that. Not yet.
“Am I interrupting something?” asked Jax. He leaned against the doorway, a single silver eyebrow raised.
“Why’re you here?” Ana asked. “Who’s piloting the ship?”
Jerking straight, he gave a gasp. “I’m the pilot?”
Ana rolled her eyes. “Very funny.”
Jax grinned. “Siege’s got the helm for a while. I’m apparently stuck babysitting this troublemaker.” He jerked his chin toward the Ironblood.
“Lucky you.”
“Mmm. Talle wants you in the galley, by the way, to help set the table. Beef stew tonight, your favorite.” Jax poked her in the stomach, and she made a face.
“Come on, Di,” she said. “You can help me chop onions.”
“You mean do it for you,” D09 retorted, letting her pull him out of the infirmary—until Jax put a hand to his shoulder, stopping him. Ana glanced back, confused, but Jax waved his hand for her to go ahead.
“He’ll be up in a sec,” he told her. She shrugged and went on ahead without him. When she had climbed the stairs, Jax bent in to D09. “I know you love Ana—”
“I cannot love—”
“Well I can, and I do, and I don’t want to see her hurt. We both know that ship probably won’t have anything—if it’s even out there. You need to prepare her for that. Trust me, you’ll want to say good-bye.”
Di could not quite compose a response.
“Metalhead, hurry up!” Ana called from the top of the stairs.
“Think about it.” Then Jax let go of his shoulder, and Di left the infirmary.
Ana smiled down from the top of the staircase, her braid pulled over her shoulder, a thorn scratch on her cheek.
He did not need to compose a good-bye yet. He had time.
Robb
Robb’s head was pounding.
What did he drink at his brother’s celebration? Nothing that he could remember. There was the champagne, but then there was that waiter with the voxcollar, and the outlaw masquerading as a waiter and—Goddess’s spark.
He snapped his eyes open and looked around. He was in an . . . infirmary? It smelled like disinfectant and gunpowder. The sharp halogen lights made everything bright and blurry. His head swam.
“Get up, Ironblood,” singsonged a voice, and poked him in the side.
He sat up with a hiss, holding his ribs. How had he—
Nevaeh. Blood staining his favorite evening coat. Falling out of the skysailer.
The outlaws.
Robb scrambled off the gurney, away from a young man with violet eyes. A Solani. The one from the skysailer. He must’ve been close to Robb’s age, but his silver hair made him look old—ancient—and his skin shimmered as if starlight hid just beneath. He wore a ruffly purple evening coat, golden filigree decorating the collar to match the lining, and buttons so polished they gleamed. Underneath that insufferably garish jacket was a silk shirt, stained with what Robb figured was his blood. A pair of goggles sat around his neck.
The Solani was impossibly tall—they all were—with a square face and sharp jawline. His eyes were narrow, eyebrows slivers of silver to match his thick and messy ponytail, his lips pressed into a thin, impatient line.
Robb grabbed the first thing he could find—a suture pen—and held it to attack. The pain in his side was a dull roar, but it was quickly sharpening. “Where am I?” he wheezed.
“The Dossier,” the Solani replied, “and put that down before you embarrass yourself.”
“Last time I woke up, a Metal sedated me.”
“D09 rarely likes people who try to get Ana killed. In fact, I don’t like those kinds of people, either.”
Robb steeled his shoulders, because Ana hadn’t been the one dangling a thousand feet over Nevaeh’s slums. “Fine. I assume I am your prisoner. Where’re you taking me?”
“Taking you?” The Solani bit back a laugh. “Ironblood, you’re just along for the ride.”
Embarrassment tinged Robb’s ears. “Then where are we going, star-kisser?”