Page 11

Chapter Eleven

A ries

“Stop humming.” Sharp words slice through our tiny cottage before I can catch them. The Manual swims before my eyes—weeks of forced proximity finally fraying my last nerve.

“Sorry.” Callie’s voice is clipped. She stops humming, but her fingers keep tapping against the table, sending tiny vibrations through the wood that set my teeth on edge.

After weeks in this tiny cottage, every small habit has become magnified. The way she hums while reading. How she never quite closes cabinet doors. The soft sounds she makes in her sleep that drive me crazy on the other side of that inadequate barrier pillow.

“Could you…” Gesturing at her tapping fingers, I try to keep my tone neutral. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

I couldn’t read or write when we overcame our masters and set off to fly across the galaxy to take control of our own fates. I can read fine now, thanks to Brianna’s teaching, but I need my full concentration .

Callie’s hand stills, but tension radiates from her rigid posture. “Heaven forbid I disturb your very important reading of instructions we’ve already memorized.”

“They change daily,” I remind her, though we both know that’s not really the issue. “And mistakes cost us marks.”

And three marks cost me my life. But I don’t say that. She’s doing me a favor, I remind myself.

“Right. Because you’re so concerned about precision.” The bitterness in her voice makes me look up sharply. “That’s why you spent ten standard minutes adjusting the barrier pillow last night. For precision.”

Heat floods my face at the memory. I had indeed fussed with the pillow, but only because her sleep-sounds were making it impossible to maintain proper distance. Not that I can explain that without making everything worse.

“The barrier is important,” I say stiffly. “The rules—”

“The rules!” She stands abruptly, pacing the small space. “Always the rules with you. Don’t touch, don’t talk about feelings unless we’re staring into that freaking mirror, don’t acknowledge that maybe there’s something happening here…”

“Callie—”

“No!” Whirling to face me, her eyes flash with anger and something else that makes odd, confusing emotions ripple through me. “I’m tired of pretending. Tired of dancing around each other in this tiny space, following all these rules while ignoring the elephant in the room.”

“I don’t know what an elephant is but I understand what you’re implying, so what elephant would that be?” My own temper rises to meet hers. “The fact that we’re trapped here? That your misplaced sense of obligation—”

“Obligation?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Is that what you think this is? That I’m just fulfilling some duty to one of the crew?”

“Isn’t it?” Standing to face her, I force myself to maintain proper distance despite every instinct screaming at me to move closer. “You’ve made it clear how much you hate being trapped here with someone you can barely stand to be around.”

“I never said that!”

“You didn’t have to! Five annums of avoiding me made it pretty clear how you felt.”

“How I felt?” Her voice cracks. “You’re the one who pushed me away! Who built those walls so high I couldn’t even see if the person I knew was still in there somewhere.”

Before I can respond, a chime cuts through the tension. The Committee member arrives, their multifaceted eyes taking in our confrontational poses.

“Conflict has arisen,” they intone. “The Resolution Ritual must be performed.”

“Now?” Callie’s voice holds equal parts frustration and disbelief.

“Now.” They gesture to the meditation corner. “Please assume the position.”

The “position” turns out to be sitting back-to-back, close enough to feel each other’s heat but not quite touching. The ritual requires sharing our deepest fears about the conflict while maintaining this almost-contact.

“You may not separate until resolution is achieved. Failure to achieve satisfactory resolution will result in a mark against you,” the Committee member adds before fading away .

Silence stretches between us, broken only by our slightly ragged breathing. The heat of Callie’s back radiates against mine, making it hard to focus.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters. “We’re adults. We shouldn’t need—”

“I’m afraid of wanting you.” The words escape before I can stop them, shocking us both into silence. The ritual compels truth, much like the Mirror did, but this feels more intimate somehow. More raw, but somewhat easier when I don’t have to look into her eyes and see her reaction, her rejection.

Her sharp intake of breath is the only indication she heard me. After a moment, she admits, “I’m afraid of not being wanted.”

The confession hits like a physical blow. Pictures flash through my mind of what we shared in that cell. Her naked skin illuminated red from the glow of the exit lights, the forced copulation that became something I yearned for all day, the scent of her, the taste…

“Callie—”

“In that cell,” she continues quietly, “before you withdrew completely… I thought maybe we had something real. Something that transcended the horrible circumstances. Then you just… disappeared behind those walls you erected. Harder than stone. And I’ve spent five years wondering what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t…” My throat tightens. “It wasn’t you. I thought I was protecting you.”

“From what ?”

“From me .” The words scratch out, painful and true. “I am not…” I shake my head, gritting my teeth so tightly I fear they’ll crack. But I have to say it.

“I am not falsely accused. You didn’t sacrifice your freedom for an innocent man. I’m a…”

I have never said it out loud. Ever. I can go months at a time without even thinking the word. But not now.

“I’m a killer , Callie. I was protecting you from developing feelings for a killer . You deserved better than being forced to mate with someone like that.” And now here we are, bound together in this unbearable situation in this fucking tiny cottage, sleeping in the same narrow fucking bed.

Her silence feels weighted with understanding. “So you withdrew. Made yourself cold and distant so I wouldn’t…”

“So you wouldn’t feel obligated. Wouldn’t try to make something real out of a situation that was forced upon us both.”

“And now?” She shifts slightly, her shoulders brushing mine. “Are you still trying to protect me?”

The question hangs in the air between us. “I am trying to protect us both,” I admit finally. “Because in seventy-six days, this ends. And I cannot… I cannot let myself hope for more than that.”

“What if I want more?”

Though she said it so quietly I almost didn’t hear her, my body vibrates with the weight of her words. It’s all I can do to keep from breaking the rules, turning around, gripping her shoulders, and peering into her eyes to read the truth of her emotions.

“Callie…” Her name is torn from my throat as if by a grappling hook.

She can’t possibly know what she’s saying, but I dare not say that. I’ve been around these human women for long enough to know she’d happily put a knife to my throat for suggesting she doesn’t know her own mind.

“Listen.” She turns slightly, though the ritual position prevents us from seeing each other’s faces. “I know you think you’re protecting me, but what if you’re just hurting us both? What if these trials are giving us a chance to fix what broke in that cell?”

“And if we fail?”

“Then we fail knowing we tried for something real .” Her voice softens. “Isn’t that better than spending the next two and a half months pretending we don’t feel anything?”

The truth ritual compels honesty, even when it terrifies me. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive losing you twice.”

Her hand finds mine where it rests on the floor between us. She avoids contact, but the space between our fingers is as slim as a piece of paper. The almost-contact sends awareness shooting up my arm. “Then don’t lose me. Let me in instead of pushing me away.”

The Committee member manifests before I can respond. “Resolution achieved,” they announce. “You may separate.”

We turn to face each other, both a little raw from the revelations. The tiny space between us feels charged with possibility and fear.

“So,” she says softly, “what now?”

“Now…” Looking at her in the fading daylight, something shifts in my chest. “Now we try for something real. Whatever that means.”

Her smile is like a sunrise after a storm. “Whatever that means,” she agrees.

The Committee member fades away, leaving us with new understanding and even more dangerous hope. For the first time, I wonder if the Committee has been rooting for us all along, despite their neutral facade.

The rules about physical contact still apply—we can’t act on this fragile new honesty with touch. But somehow that makes it more powerful, this conscious choice to be emotionally intimate while maintaining physical distance.

As we prepare for evening meditation, the cottage feels different. Smaller, yet somehow less confining. The space between us holds possibility instead of carefully maintained barriers.

Seventy-six days left to either build something real or watch it crumble. The stakes feel higher now that we’re both acknowledging what we stand to lose.