Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(90)

He did not know why he had thought Ana would recognize him. It was an error on his part. She was human, after all.

And he was exponentially less.

He forced himself to bow, unable to meet her gaze. “I will go.”

He turned to leave when her voice stopped him.

“If you don’t work for Rasovant, who are you?”

Who.

With his back turned, he said, “You called me Di.”

“Di?” she echoed, and before he could respond, she had grabbed a handful of his uniform collar, turning him around to face her. “I watched him die . . . I killed him! You don’t even look like him. You don’t sound like him. You don’t . . .”

“I know,” he replied, trying to gently uncurl her fingers from his collar—so he could leave. He had promised to. “I must admit, this is one of my worse plans—definitely worse than that mine on Cerces, and the time you ran me over with a skysailer.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you . . . No one . . .” She sank to her knees, dragging him with her. “You can’t be . . .”

But still, she would not let go.

As if she wanted to believe.

There were over a million possibilities more likely, a million chances more probable. But he was here, and he could finally feel her warm hands, run his thumbs along her calluses.

He was here.

And without planning, without calculating, without thinking, he leaned forward—as if it was the most natural thing in the world—and pressed his forehead against hers. Like they always had. Ever since he could remember. The smell of her flooded his senses, moonlilies, rich and wonderful, her forehead warm against his. She looked so different without hair. Stronger, sharper edges and bolder curves.

Her scars were a star chart of latitudes and longitudes crisscrossing, string across string, painting a constellation across her cheek. He ran his thumb across it, tracing the lines, and finally raised his eyes to look into hers, as golden and as brilliant as a sunrise.

He had never known this feeling, and now there was an ache for all the time lost. He drank her in, filling every program, every errant code, every dormant function, with nothing but her. With the imprint of her, the memory, the moment.

She searched his eyes, strangely, wonderingly, trying to find something inside. He did not know what she wanted to find, but he hoped she found him. Her Di.

Hesitantly, she touched his face, her fingertips quivering against his skin as if he was a mirage about to fade, and he leaned into her warmth, closing his eyes, savoring, thinking, I am here, I am here.

“He died,” she whispered. “I saw him die.”

Di smiled sadly. “I will always come back to you.”

And with all his iron heart, he believed it.

She heaved a sob and wrapped her arms around his neck. She buried her face into his shoulder, so tightly, as if she were afraid to be pried away.

He set his chin on her head. “I am sorry, I am so sorry,” he repeated, feeling her tears dampening his uniform shoulder.

“Why are you sorry? I was the one who wanted to sneak onto that ship. I was the one who led you into danger. I killed you—”

He pushed her away from him. “No,” he said, looking into her eyes so she would understand, “I went because I wanted to.”

“You went because you always go,” she argued, “and I always lead you into trouble.”

“Because I will follow you anywhere,” he insisted. “To the ends of the galaxy, if I have to. I want to exist where you exist, and that is enough.”

Then she leaned forward, and he made a move to try and catch her, worried she was falling—

She pressed her lips against his. They were warm and soft. It was like the kiss from Astoria, a second, a moment, a breath—

One point three seconds—and gone.

“Oh, Goddess!” she gasped, pulling away, leaving the tingling, electric sensation against his lips. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean . . . that was . . . I didn’t—”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into another kiss, and she melted into him, pressing as close as she could, and still he wanted to be closer. Her fingers threading into his hair, his around her waist, moving, exploring. Calculations had no room here, probability and chances washed away to a deeper longing. His tongue traced the contour of her lips, memorizing her taste, her motion, her method. The kiss lit a million suns in between his zeroes and ones, and made him infinite.

He did not want to let go. He did not want to leave—he would not. It was that voice that cried this, deep inside him, growing louder and louder. It was selfish. It was damning. But he did not want to forget the taste of her, her warmth, her curves, her smell. It was selfish and it was human.

And for a moment he allowed himself to be.

Until finally, she slid away, coming up for air. “You, too?” she whispered, her breath hot against his lips, hopeful, her eyes blazing like suns rising for him.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “On iron and stars,” he promised.





Ana


She wanted to drink him in like the dawn, and she wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. He was a stranger. He was stranger.

The way he looked, red hair and pale skin, sharp jaw and thick eyebrows. So human it almost scared her—it had scared her. The body was still Rasovant’s creation. It was still a secret the Adviser had tried to hide, but every time she looked into his pitch-black eyes the fear ebbed. Because there was her Di, staring back.