The old manasks about routes. Marla asks where I wandered today. I answer both, carefully. My voice is steadier than before. I laugh occasionally—when he grumbles at a covered axle, when Ella teases me about oil in my hair.
She’s watching me. I catch the glance before she pulls away. Compassion. Fear. Love.
One night, Vex drifts to sleep early. Ella and I linger in the workshop, in the flicker of red core lights and circuit glow.
He wakes up and comes back in, little bare feet slipping across tools, wanting me. He toddles to my knees, looks up. I scoop him, cradle him. He rests his head against me. The weight is heavy, precious.
I feel the pattern. He learns my scent. Recognizes the thrum of my armor when I stand nearby. Watches the curve of my shoulders. Traces my shadow.
He isn’t just her son. He is reflecting me.
I look down at his face in my arms: the curve of his cheek, the crease at his wrist.
I whisper, “You are mine.”
Ella breathes next to me, hand resting on my shoulder. “Yes. He is.”
“That makes him a target,” I say, the thought finally surfacing.
Her grip tightens. “Then we make ourselves a fortress.”
Late that night, the house settles.
Ella sleeps in the bed, Vex in his crib beside her. The moon filters through broken blinds, casting silver bars across her skin. She looks peaceful. Soft.
I want to lie down beside her. I want to close my eyes and let the bond hum me to sleep.
But I don’t.
I pull my boots back on.
I grab the heavy wrench I’ve modified to be balanced like a vibro-blade. I step out into the hallway, silent as a ghost, and move to the front room.
I sit by the window that overlooks the street. The shadows stretch long. A hover-cab drifts by, too slow. I watch it until its taillights vanish.
Ella needs safety. Vex needs a future.
They can sleep.
I will be the monster at the door who makes sure nothing else gets in.
CHAPTER 33
ELLA
The workshop smells like warm metal and promise. The low hum of power relays pulses beneath my ribs. Light filters through greasy windows, dancing over tools, spilled coolant, circuit boards half-wired. It’s chaos and home.
Takhiss is crouched beside the hover crib, working on a stabilizer cradle he’s built. He fits a fine alignment bar into place; Vex’s sleeping module sways slightly—then steadies. The cradle’s frame hugs the crib like armor. He stands, brushes his fingers across the edge, checks tolerances. I hand him a sensor probe. He nods, voice low:
“Balance is good now. No drift.”
I lean over to test it. The crib stands firm. Success glints between his jaw and the crib’s frame. I grin.
He laughs—a rich, soft sound that makes the circuits stutter. “You should see your face when I fix your problems.”
Vex stirs. He’s awake, blinking. I hurry over, lifting him from his sleeper pod. He yawns, squints, then grins. He brings his hands up and splashes formula across Takhiss’s scales. The liquid drips, shining against green and black.
“Oh,” Takhiss says, his face frozen. Then he shakes slightly, flicks the drop off, and laughs again.
