Page 39 of The First Spark (Dynasty of Fire #1)

The bathroom door creaked open, and Zane looked up from cleaning his pulser as Hannover finally shuffled out.

Thick mascara tracks ran down her cheeks, swirling with smeared makeup and blood.

She’d been sobbing in there for what felt like an eternity, long enough for him to clean his wounds and fold out the ship’s only bed.

Zane bit the inside of his cheek. He’d hoped she would wait to emerge until they dropped from the stargate route, so he had an excuse to hide in the cockpit and avoid her tears. Apparently, his luck had run out.

Hannover slammed to a halt. Her red, puffy eyes were glued to his pulser. Whatever color was left in her face drained away.

Frowning, Zane slid the barrel back into place.

She flinched and stumbled back.

Oh. Zane sagged onto the cargo bench. Of course.

It all played out in his mind. Vale, the traitorous captain, pointed a pulser at her head.

Then Mylis—who had been his only real friend on Dali, who they’d both trusted, who Hannover obviously had feelings for, who he’d spent so much time sparring with— Mylis had turned his weapon on her.

Zane’s knuckles turned white on the pulser’s grip. If he hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t have believed it. But the traitor had done it, and judging by Hannover’s face, her heart had shattered.

As she stared at the pulser, her panicked breaths came louder, faster.

“Here.” Zane held it out to her, keeping the barrel pointed down. “Take it. It’s yours.”

She shook her head.

Never surrender a weapon—the first rule of training in the Oppallese Marines. But she was trembling. Even if he didn’t necessarily like her, he didn’t want to see a traumatized woman cowering before him.

“Take it. The safety’s on. You can hold it.”

Hannover’s fingers closed around the grip, but she recoiled and nearly dropped it. Holding it like a live explosive, she trudged across the cargo bay, put it in a hatch, and slammed it shut.

Zane’s teeth clenched. The next time he saw Grant, he’d make him pay.

Hannover dropped into one of the chairs mounted to the wall and popped a few painkillers. He’d left the bottle untouched, even though cleaning his wounds had hurt like hell. The chain of beads under his shirt and the memories that came with it were too heavy.

She grabbed a wad of gauze, squeezed her eyes shut, and peeled back the blood-spotted towel pressed to her side.

Zane inhaled sharply.

Under the tattered shreds of her dress, her burned skin was hissing, red, and raw, sliced through with cuts carved by glass.

The shot must’ve grazed her, but the wound still looked nasty.

Probably felt it, too. She pressed gauze to the burn, and as drops of blood stained the white fabric, tears seeped from her eyes.

Her hands shook as she tipped saline solution over another pad of gauze.

The saline sloshed onto the floor, and mascara tracks streamed down her face.

“Let me do that for you.”

“I’m fine. ”

Her voice was high and uneven. Her body shook with grief. Clearly, she was not fine.

She splashed some disinfectant on the gauze. With a small whimper, she touched it to her side. More silent tears fell, and Zane shifted in his seat.

“Hannover. Kalie.” Saying her name sent a thrill rushing through him. It made her seem like a person, not a crown. “No one should have to do this alone.”

“It’s my own fault. I taunted him, and—and you’re right?—”

“Taunted him?” Zane’s brows shot to his hairline. “You think Carik’s behind this?”

Kalie’s face crumpled. “Everyone I love dies because of me.”

Zane drew in a slow breath. He’d thought the same thing, one dark morning in the little bar he’d managed after Oppalli.

Tears had slipped down his cheeks as he’d stared at a carefully folded picture of a laughing woman.

He’d brushed his thumb over her cheek, then unscrewed the bottle of pills in his lap.

“It’s for the best if I deal with it by myself,” he’d told Mira weeks later, late one night when they were both drinking.

“Bullshit,” she’d said. “Losing someone you love isn’t something you should go through on your own.”

He’d almost told Mira how close he’d come to death mere minutes before he met her. He hadn’t. Now, with Kalie, the words were on the tip of his tongue.

Zane opened his mouth, but his throat sealed shut.

She’d already called him a coward once.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is. I wanted a war. I told him I’d destroy him.

” Kalie touched the blood-spotted gauze to another wound, flinched, and tossed it aside.

“I thought having the crown would let me do anything. I didn’t listen to Uncle Jerran.

I didn’t listen to my advisors. They chased me out, and I deserve it.

” Her chin wobbled with suppressed grief. “I deserve it.”

“No.” Zane hunched over, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I know what it’s like to be driven away from your home. I don’t remember that day, but I remember how it felt. No one deserves that. ”

The broken thruster’s death rattle crackled through the cabin. Kalie picked up the discarded gauze and screwed her eyes shut, dabbing at the wound.

As she cringed, Zane nudged her knee. “Let me help.”

She bit her lip but moved over, setting the saline and gauze down. Zane crossed the aisle, sat beside her, and poured some saline on a fresh square of gauze.

Clinical, detached. First rule of being a medic.

But now that he was inches away from her, with a flashlight’s bright glow shining on her tattered dress, everything was visible. Her bare skin, bloodied and burned. Her slim hips. The shredded remains of her lacy corset.

And to wrap that wound, she’d have to take those rags off. Feverish heat spread through him, and he sucked in a breath, reigning it in. He would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Zane pressed gauze to a burn, and Kalie flinched, clenching her fists.

Trying his best to ignore her winces and hissed curses, he dabbed at the burn.

Clinical, detached. He silently repeated the rule as he followed the burn up her side.

She was shaken and frightened. No need to make this awkward.

He would clean the wound, bandage it, and?—

She whimpered.

Screw it.

Zane held out his other hand. “Here.”

She sniffed. “Trying to get me to hold your hand?”

“You flatter yourself.” He smirked at her, and a strained smile ghosted across her lips. “If it hurts, squeeze my hand. It helps. I promise.”

As Kalie placed her cold hand in his, shocks shot up his arm.

Zane swept the gauze over a hissing red patch of skin. She inhaled sharply, and as her hand tightened around his, he paused. Then she relaxed, and he continued.

“Were you a medic on Oppalli?” Her voice was barely audible over the roaring engines.

“No. Not officially. But when the war got bad… we all had to learn, I guess. ”

It didn’t matter in the end. No matter how desperately he’d fought to keep his squad alive, they’d all died eventually. He hadn’t been able to save them.

“How did you end up on such a terrible planet?”

Zane scowled. He was used to the judgment, the contempt for his home, but Oppalli wasn’t all bad.

Centuries ago, before the Dalian government had mucked around with Oppalli’s Third Republic, it had been prosperous.

Peaceful. Safe. Now wasn’t the time for picking fights, though, so he pushed the anger down.

“My mom was from there. Keep pressure on that.”

Their fingers brushed as she pressed down on the gauze he’d packed against her side. Blood trickled down her back, and Zane motioned for her to turn. Her golden hair, tangled and matted with blood, hung over a gash. As he brushed it over her shoulder, she shivered.

The heating units must’ve regained some power, because he could’ve sworn the temperature had risen.

“They met when my dad was on vacation, a few cycles before the war. When she got pregnant with me, they eloped and moved back to Dali. It was a big scandal at your court.”

“It’s not my court anymore,” she whispered.

Zane taped a wad of gauze over the bleeding wound.

It wasn’t her court, and he’d meant what he said earlier.

A war to get her throne back had too high a cost. But Madeleine had destroyed Dali, even before the civil war broke out.

To have her loyal daughter sit on the throne—the daughter of the tyrant who’d ordered the death of his father…

He crumpled a piece of gauze in his fist.

It wasn’t worth the fight. It was not worth it.

“You have a cut here.” Zane tapped a spot high on her back. “The dress is in the way.”

She tugged the zipper down, but she couldn’t get it past the small of her back.

Gently, he pried her hands away, hissing at the sight of her cracked, scabbed nails. He eased the zipper down to her waist. Her ripped corset covered most of her back, but his jaw clenched at the sight of the gashes and the shards of glass glinting inside them.

Her own people had done this to her. And she blamed herself.

Zane pinched a sliver of glass out of the cut, and her hand crushed his.

“My mom was like you.” He swiped saline over the wound.

“I loved her, don’t get me wrong. But she was headstrong.

Stubborn. She and my father were well-matched in that.

My grandparents were good rulers, good listeners.

My parents… They were practically kids when the war started, reckless kids, and they acted as if they ruled the world. ”

He bandaged the gash and cleaned another one. Her muscles went taut as disinfectant seeped in.

“I think that’s why your aunt didn’t give us Avington back. My mom pissed off a lot of important people, and she was a foreigner to boot. But she recognized her mistakes and grew from them. I think she deserved a second chance. And…” Zane looked at her back, shredded and bleeding. “So do you.”

Kalie sniffed. “I wish your mom had gotten a second chance.”