Page 17 of Border Control

Dom moves, unstraping himself with a brisk click and striding to me, reaching out. Not for me, but for the seat. His hands clamp down on either side of mine, fingers braced around the rests with that iron grip I saw in the machine shed earlier. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s there. Solid. If I fly off the seat, I’ll ram into him rather than bounce around the ship.

“Breathe,” he whispers. Low, firm. “Draw it in slow. Out again. Match me.”

He starts breathing in rhythmic, deep exhales, shoulders rising and falling in deliberate control. His lilac eyes never leave mine.

I try. Inhale. Exhale. My breath comes short at first, hiccupping. But his calm is infectious. He’s a wall of warmth and steady pressure, radiating confidence like an anchor in a storm.

“I—hate—flying,” I manage, through clenched teeth.

“I will protect you,” he says quietly.

I don’t know him. Not really. But I know he means that promise.

I lift my hand and lay it over his. I pretend it’s to stabilize him, but we both know it’s for me. His hand doesn't move. The scales on the top of his hand are warm, rough in a way that feels earned. His eyes burn into mine, a deep, rich violet that fills the whole shuttle, the whole sky.

The lurching levels out. The pitch steadies. I suck in a deep breath and don’t taste fear for the first time in five minutes.

Ilia’s tending to Ellen, who also looks pale despite her hearty assurances earlier. I don’t think they’ve noticed anything outside their bubble, but they will see Dom soon.

Dom rises without fanfare and heads for Nevare, checking him with a carer’s concern. Then he glances at me. “Thank you for allowing me to brace on your chair. I foolishly forgot to strap myself in.”

“Occupied with Nevare, as always,” Ilia chips in, glaring toward the cockpit.

He even covered for me.

Dom inclines his head. “I hope you are well, female.”

“Laura,” I say, emphasizing. “I’m fine, thanks. What’s the pilot up to?”

“I will check.” He presses his fist over his heart, bowing his head, like I’m his empress and he’s my loyal soldier.

And okay—that makes my stomach flip again, for entirely different reasons.

I watch him walk away, muscles shifting under iridescent scales that shimmer red to purple. He takes everything I say seriously and way too literally, but not like a robot. He doesn’t parrot.

He likes being told what to do.

Interesting.

We’re in the air a minute at most, fortunately level, before the craft slides back down. Ilia moves away from Ellen and taps something on the smooth ship sides. The wall shimmers into tiny cubes, twisting and opening up into a hatch. A rush of wind sweeps in, and Ilia jumps out into it.

“I have her!” he shouts, voice clear over the hum of the engines.

I exhale. Arabella’s going to be soaked in this storm, but she’ll be fine.

Gara steps up into the ship carrying her. She’s more than wet—she’slimp, drenched and unconscious.

I rocket upright. “What have you done to her?”

Gara blows water from his nose, eyes firmly on Arabella’s face. “She passed out. I don’t know why.”

He lays her on the table. Her head lolls to the side, curls unraveling, and a stab of fear punches through my ribs. My chest seizes, cold and hot all at once. Not Arabella, not like this. I can’t breathe, can’t think; I only see Alice, only see every victim I’ve already failed.

I demand, “What happened?”

“She lost consciousness.” Gara strokes her red curls away from her face.

I push between them, shouting, “What the fuck did you do to her?”