“Wait.” She caught his arm as he started to rise. “I know those footsteps.”
She’d grown up listening to that particular shuffle—the academic’s gait, the hesitation before each step as if calculating the probability of a fall. The nervous breathing that grew worse under stress.
“It’s my father.”
Valrek’s eyes narrowed. “The man who sold you.”
“And the man who saved my life. Both things are true.”
He didn’t look convinced, but he remained where he was, his body still coiled with tension. She could sense his beast pacing just beneath the surface, waiting for permission to strike.
She rose slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. The after-effects of the suit had faded overnight, but her body still ached as if she’d been beaten. The burns on her wrists and ankles had scabbed over, angry red reminders of the cage she’d worn.
She wrapped one of the furs around her shoulders, suddenly very aware that she was wearing nothing beneath it, and moved towards the cave entrance.
The morning light was pale and grey, filtered through the clouds that still lingered from the storm. The sea below was calmer now, though swells of white foam marked where the waves had carved new shapes into the shoreline. Debris littered the beach, pieces of the shuttle scattered across the sand like the bones of some great beast.
And climbing the narrow path with all the grace of a newborn sea-bird was her father.
He looked terrible. His lab coat was gone, replaced by a simple jacket that hung off his thin frame. His spectacles were cracked, held together with what looked like medical tape. His grey hair, usually merely disheveled, now stood up in wild tufts as if he’d been pulling at it all night.
But it was his face that made her breath catch.
He looked old. Not just aged, but broken, as if something fundamental had cracked inside him. His eyes, when they finally lifted to meet hers, were red-rimmed and hollow with a grief so profound it made her chest ache.
“Ariella.”
Her name came out as a sob.
She didn’t move. All the words she’d imagined saying to him—the accusations, the recriminations, the years of hurt condensed into bitter syllables—lodged in her throat like stones.
He stumbled the last few steps up the path, reaching for her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real, but he stopped just short of touching her, his fingers trembling in the air between them.
“You’re alive.” The words cracked on the second syllable. “When they found the shuttle wreckage, I thought…”
“How did you find me?” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. She could feel Valrek’s presence behind her, a warm anchor in the chaos of her emotions.
“I looked everywhere.” He gave a broken laugh. “All night. I searched the beach, the cliffs, the rocks. I followed every scrap of debris, every piece of the shuttle. I thought…” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I thought you were dead. I thought I had killed you.”
You almost did.
The thought was sharp and ugly, but she didn’t say it out loud. There would be time for anger later. Right now, all she felt was a strange, hollow exhaustion.
“You should come inside.” She stepped back, gesturing towards the cave entrance. “Before someone sees you.”
He hesitated, his eyes darting past her into the darkness. She knew he was seeing the primitive furnishings and the rough stone walls, the furs piled near the embers of last night’s fire. A far cry from the sterile lab that had been her prison for most of her life.
And then his gaze found Valrek, his big body looming behind her. He had pulled on his leather vest but left his chest mostly bare, the scars of his exile clearly visible. His golden eyes glowed in the dimness, fixed on Anton with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“Father.” She kept her voice calm, neutral. “This is Valrek.”
Anton’s face went through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, fear, confusion, and finally something that might have been understanding. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“You’re the one,” he finally managed. “The Vultor warrior. The one who’s child she saved.”
“I am.” Valrek’s voice was a low rumble, closer to a growl than speech. “And you’re the man who tried to sell my mate to a monster.”
Mate.
