“She’s only worried she won’t be able to use her daughter’s power.”And she’s afraid of me.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “But here’s the thing, every time Tulya gets overwhelmed with anger, her abilities are shorting out. This isn’t about Emelee’s feelings making her go unconscious. It’s about her own aggravation at the situation.”
“With Ezza too?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Ezza, Emelee, you and her… And yes, she caused additional problems when she held the feelings before and after thetransfer, but I believe it was coupled with her being mad about the scenario with Blake. We know she’s come to care for the girl.”
I felt myself nodding, wondering where Abraham stood on the issue.
“So, I thought about it and casually mentioned to Ezza that she would get a lot more use out of Tulya if she allowed her to be happy.”
“Wow,” I said, not believing what I heard. “You did?”
Abraham patted me on the back. “I did. You’re a good man and an even better Rubian, Donovan.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, still thinking about the torch but schooling myself. I could only worry about Tulya in this moment.
Abraham interrupted my black hole of bad thoughts. “More on all of that later. I have ideas on fixing it all, but let’s get your lady better.”
Quickly, he pulled a syringe out of his pocket, and I sat down next to Tulya on the other side of the bed without prompting. Touching her, in case she needed to know I was there.
I couldn’t help but take in the aging medic, dressed in a navy suit, hair graying at the temples, and wondered if he could advocate for Blake too. Surely there was no one better to do it than him with his age and wisdom. I was drawn away from my thoughts when he pushed the syringe into Tulya’s arm, now exposed from the sheets.
And then we waited, both of us tracking up and down my carpet path.
Tulya
My throat was dry, and I could feel my lips cracking as I ran my tongue along them. My body felt like a bag of bones, but I willed myself to open my eyes.
Of course I was met with a sparkling pair of green eyes staring at me, small crinkles in the corners as if he hadn’t slept in a while.
“Hi,” he whispered, his palm reaching out to smooth the hair off my forehead.
“What…” I tried to form a question but my voice crackled and croaked. Immediately, Donovan stood and went to pour me a glass of water. I noted the vanity was stocked with several cold beverages, coffee, and fruit, and my gaze landed on a bowl of bananas.
“Want one?”
I shook my head. “How?” I managed to get out another word.
“The staff,” was all Donovan said.
He brought me a lowball full of ice water and held it out for me to take a sip. I didn’t know if my hand was ready to grip the glass, so I allowed it.
“The fighting, or whatever you want to call it, is over,” Donovan said when I finished a long gulp, whispering the words in my ear.
Unsure why he was whispering, or which fight he was referencing exactly, I leaned my cheek into his face. My unwelcome, big, sloppy tears plastered his skin.
“Shhh,” he crooned, holding me tight, setting the tumbler down.
I felt my head shaking against him.
We were in a bedroom, but I wasn’t sure whose—a guest room or Donovan’s—or how long I’d been sleeping or out cold again, like back in Miami. My body was failing me regularly.
“We can’t do this” was the first string of words I murmured, moving my arms under the blanket, wiggling my fingers—making sure they were all working—not asking where we were. My heart took a beat at all ten of my digits accounted for.
“We can’t do what?” Donovan took my chin in his forefinger and thumb and tilted my face to look at him, his deep green eyes searching mine.
“We can’t be together.” I brought my mostly recovered hand out and set it on his shoulder. For a quick moment, I wished he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Being skin to skin with Donovan was my weakness. I’d hold those memories for a lifetime.
