“Yeah,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “It’s just not my favorite topic.” My skin turns to melted ice, and I blow out a heavy breath.I can do this.“They … uh, the people on the ship. The aliens.” My lungs tighten. “Fuck…” Images of the box flash through my mind, and my teeth grind together as I try to keep myself in the present. “There was a document. I think.” The sharp metallic scent of the ship burns my nose. I swallow and try to focus on the pattern of the deep red stains covering the bedsheet in front of me. “They showed it to me, but I couldn't read it. Different language, I think.”If I tilt my head a little, that stain kind of looks like a cloud. “They were talking so fast. Said I had to bleed? I didn’t…” I close my eyes, willing away the intense surge of fear.It’s over. You’re safe.“They?—”
The dam breaks, adrenaline surges, and I fold in on myself, wrapping my arms around my torso like I might be able to hold myself together.
“Amara?” Vexar whispers.
Something touches my shoulder, and I flinch back.
“Don’t,” I rasp. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want him to look at me, or talk to me, or even acknowledge me right now. I drop my head into my lap, gripping my hair tight enough to hurt. I hate that my body does this. I fuckinghateit so much. There’s no easy way out. No ‘emergency eject’ button. I just have to sit in it and wait for it to pass.
I shake as my nervous system reacts to the past like it’s still happening. Like I’ve just been ripped out of that fucking box. The smell of death and shit and sour bodies surrounds me, but I’m still here. The memory hasn’t pulled me under. Not fully.
The air around me shifts, and I can feel the radiating heat of Vexar’s legs as he drops them on either side of me. I want to tell him to lay back down, but I think his nearness is actually helping.
“I am sorry,” he whispers. He doesn’t touch me again. He just sits there. Inches away. Breathing steadily. Waiting.
After a few agonizing moments, my head clears enough that I can finish what I started. Keeping my face in my lap, I say, “I couldn’t read the contract. They pricked my thumb and pressed it to something. I don’t know what happened after that.” When the words are out, I feel marginally better, and after maybe a minute, I’m able to sit up again. I feel shaky and horrible, but at this point, I’m used to it.
I look up at Vexar, expecting pity, but there’s no pity on hisface. He looks calm, hands folded in his lap, blood oozing down his side, and a soft expression on his face.
“Do you have any idea what the contract said?” he asks.
I roll my shoulders and wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands. “I asked Solta to get me a copy. She said she couldn’t and that I wouldn’t be able to read it anyway. When I asked if she could tell me what it said, she told me I’d have to work five years to pay off my debt, and then I’d be free. But that’s a lie. There is no debt, and no one leaves here alive.”
His brows dip, and he leans forward enough that I can smell the warm scent of his skin. “Why do you believe that?”
“All the other nurses were told the same thing, and most of them have been here for a lot longer than five years. Some of them have been here for most of their lives.”
Vexar rubs a hand down his face, but his calm expression doesn’t change. I want to thank him for not trying to coddle me. For not looking at me like I’m broken. But I don’t.
“You should lay back down,” I say.
15
CANDY LAND
AMARA
I’M NEARING THE end of Vexar’s wound where it curves up towards his groin, and I have maybe ten minutes before I’m going to have to figure out how to handle that. It shouldn’t be an issue, but with Vexar, the thought of having my hands so close to his groin is nerve-wracking. Which is insane. I’ve always been able to handle medical procedures just fine, no matter the location or the person. I mean, I spent eight years of my life treating dudes whose primary medical concerns were STIs. Needless to say, I’ve seen a lot of dicks in my time. But with Vexar, things feel different, and I can’t seem to find that place of mental-detachment.
“Do you have family?” he asks, propping his head up by tucking his hand underneath the pillow.
“Why do you ask?”
“You do not like answering questions, do you?”
I’m about to scoff when I realize he’s sort of right. “I guess I’m just not used to talking about myself.” Over the past year, I’ve had to be guarded, and it’s kept me alive and mostly sane.
He hums. “When you leave here, will you want to go home?”
I tighten my grip on the needle driver and start in on thenext suture. “You do realize that I’m probably not leaving here, right?”
“You are leaving here,” he states firmly.
It’s clear fighting him on this is pointless, so I let it go and say, “I haven’t really had a chance to think that far ahead.”
“Do you have any family to go back to? Friends? A mate?”
“I don’t know.” The only real family I have is Marta, and she was 84 when I was taken. Her health seemed good at the time, but at that age, things can change quickly.
