Page 64 of Last of Her Name

With a short exhalation, I lean forward and stamp a handprint over his heart. Stars, his chest is solid. I can feel his breath warm on my cheek.

His hands close softly on my arm, holding my hand in place, and our eyes lock.

Then his eyes slip, fixing on my lips. Not daring to look at his mouth, I instead stare at his eyelids. I can make out each individual eyelash, and the threads of emerald in his gray irises when his gaze flashes up to mine.

Pol leans toward me.

The tip of his nose grazes my cheek. I freeze, barely breathing, feeling his pulse race under my palm, making my own accelerate. My heart tightens like a knot. I feel like I’m standing atop the highest hill above Afka, with a storm wind rushing around me, stealing my breath, tasting of lightning.

An image of Clio rises bright in my mind: her glowing eyes when she saw Pol riding toward us that last day on Amethyne, her flushed cheeks and wistful sigh.

Swallowing, I turn my face away. “Pol … Pol, no.”

“Stacia.” His tone is heavy, full of unspoken meaning. “I—”

“Please. Please don’t.”

He pulls back, letting out a breath, eyes darting everywhere but at me. I drop my hand, violet paint dripping from my fingertips to the floor. I can barely breathe, and my body is stretched taut, skin tingling from my scalp to my toes.

“Appollo Androsthenes,” I say, my voice strained, “you knelt as a child. Now rise as a man, a warrior of the aeyla.”

He stands rigidly and bows to me, then turns and strides away without another word. His cabin door hisses shut behind him. I’m left standing with paint all over my hands and my cheek still burning where he touched me.

What in the blazing stars just happened?

I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to cool the heat in my face.

I won’t think about it.

I will forget it happened.

Clearly, Pol’s head is off from all the med patches we’ve been slapping onto him. The Trying has sent his hormones into overdrive, and his system is all out of sync. And I’m sleep deprived or something. There must be a limit to how many times a person can go into warp without their thoughts getting loopy.

“Stars,” I mutter, setting down the tray of paint.

Then I flee to my own cabin and lock the door.

The rest of the sixteen days pass in a blur.

I drink obscene amounts of coffee, wishing I had a couple bottles of Dad’s wine instead. The four of us are a wreck, moving around the ship like ghosts. Pol and I do an admirable job of avoiding each other, given the close confines of the ship. We don’t say more than five words to each other the rest of the trip.

He’s still fragile from the gun wound, but healing well. I check his wound wordlessly, rewrapping it every twelve hours until the procedure becomes routine. I can’t go near him without remembering his touch, his soft breath on my neck. I can only hope he doesn’t notice the heat in my cheeks as I bind him, and when it’s done, I rush away to splash my face with cold water. I can barely think of Clio without shame curdling my blood.

Mara doesn’t speak, either. She spends most of her time in her cabin, sleeping or crying, stars know. I try not to bother her. She never asked to come on this trip, or to sacrifice her dad, or for any of it. I wish I could do more for her, but don’t know where to begin. I barely know the girl.

That leaves Riyan for company. But his mood gets darker the closer we get to Diamin.

I spend a good deal of time sourly pondering how I ended up warping to the farthest reaches of the galaxy with three people as wrecked as I am.

And then, finally, we drop out of warp, and there it is.

The Cold Moon of Diamin.

Riyan cuts the engine and engages the forward thrusters, slowing theValentina. All four of us are on the control deck, seated and strapped in. A large reddish planet hangs to our left, the gas giant around which Diamin orbits. But there’s no sign of the moon itself—instead, something else is waiting for us.

“What,” Pol breathes, “isthat?”

Riyan gives a tight smile. “The Diamin Wall.”