Dowron’s voice again, slick as oil:“Billions may die if the Alliance fractures.”
I snarl to the empty room, “Billions already died.”
I walk to the mirror above the minibar. My reflection is a monster’s. My pupils dilated, breath ragged, armorless. “She saw you,” I mutter. “And you lied.”
I slam my fist into the counter. Bottles jump, one topples, spills sharp-smelling liquid over my hand. It stings the small cuts. I don’t care.
I stumble back to the bed, collapsing onto the edge. My claws clutch the sheet. It’s rough, too clean, stiff against my palms. The Holonet screen still flickers.Hero. Patriot.My voice like a corpse’s voice.
I try to breathe. The vent rattles. The city hum filters in. I whisper again, softer: “Amy…”
Nothing answers.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling. Faint water stains pattern it like continents. The smell of rain wafts in. My throat feels scraped raw from holding words I couldn’t speak.
I remember her face, the way her hand steadied my collar backstage, the smell of jasmine. Her voice: “We’re ready.” And me, nodding, lying.
I roll onto my side, claws scraping the mattress. The room feels colder now.
“Amy,” I murmur, “I did the wrong thing.” The words vibrate the air. They feel heavier than armor, heavier than a rifle, heavier than every body I’ve carried.
I press my palm flat against the child’s drawing again, as if it might anchor me. “I will fix it,” I whisper, but even my own ears don’t believe it.
CHAPTER 47
DARUN
The door to the apartment swings open before she asks, though she already knows I’ll be there. The exact hinge creaks I’ve memorized. The scent—warm, familiar—is like a balm and a blade all at once: jasmine from her diffuser, old books on the shelf, faint baby lotion in the air, the lingering echo of yesterday’s cooking. It smells like home. But it tastes of betrayal now.
I stand in the hallway first. Her shoes line the floor—Libra’s little ones, pastel and scuffed—beside my own boots. Drawing. Crayons and half-finished sketches scattered near the entry. Toys against the wall. A stuffed animal, patchwork, battered, perched on the edge of a low table. There is a life here. A life she worked to protect in silence. And I approached it with lies.
My knees buckle. The world gives way beneath me. I fall to the floor, hands pressed into the carpet. My claws dig into the weave, nails tearing fibers. The pain roots me. I mutter, low, “I don’t deserve her.” The words choke out. The confession presses like acid in my throat.
Amy is behind me moments later, arms crossed, tears still glimmering on her cheeks. Her face is hollow, worn. She stepsforward, voice low but strong: “No. You don’t deserve her. But she deserves you. The real you.”
The apartment is too quiet. The hum of AC, the faint creak in the floorboards, distant city traffic—all too loud now. My back aches against the wall behind me. My palms burn.
I stand shakily, meeting her eyes. My voice is rough, a broken thing: “I’ll fix this. I’ll tell the truth. Whatever it costs.”
She shakes her head, slow, sorrowful. “It’s too late.”
The weight of her words presses a wound into my chest. I wait for her to turn away. The distance between us stretches.
I hear a soft footstep. A small voice, groggy. Doors creak. Libra wanders in, sleepy eyes half open, hair tousled. She rubs at her face. She blinks. She sees me—my mudded hands, my torn clothes, my shame and fear.
Her eyes widen. Then she steps forward, rubbing her limbs sleepy and unsteady.
I look up at her. For a moment I don’t recognize the world, because she is real, living, breathing—a fragment of all I thought lost. Something soft unspools in my chest. My lips part. I whisper: “Hello, little one.”
She steps into the room, blinking, and then her actual face cracks into a gentle smile. She lurches forward, throws her arms around my leg. I catch her, lift her, feeling weight and warmth. Her hair smells of baby shampoo, soft cotton. Her small body presses to me. I cradle her tremblingly.
Amy moves closer, tears pooling in her eyes. She watches us. I hold our daughter in my arms. My jaw tightens. On my lips, a vow forms.
She murmurs, to both of us, voice rough: “You have a lot to answer for.”
Libra murmurs something sleepy—“Daddy.”
I inhale her scent, press my cheek to her head. Her small heartbeat pulses. My body is taut, trembling.
