He ignores me, of course. Typical.
Vakutans are all instinct and stubborn pride. This one especially.
“Where… where’s my unit?” His voice is gravel, strained through pain and rage.
“Gone,” I say softly. “You were the only survivor.”
The words hit him like a blow. His chest rises once, sharp, then stills.
For a second, I think he might break apart right there on the table.
Drel gives me a wary glance. “You want me to sedate him again?”
“Not yet.”
Vael’s gaze swings to Drel, then back to me. The machinery of recognition turns behind those eyes, gears grinding between confusion and fury. “I know you.”
His claws — half-metal, half-bone — twitch against the straps. “You were supposed to be dead.”
I swallow hard. “So were you.”
The silence that follows crackles louder than any alarm.
I can feel Drel’s curiosity like static on my skin, but he’s professional enough to step back, checking vitals, pretending not to listen.
Vael’s voice drops low. “Five years. I watched Luria burn. I heard your name in the after-reports. You vanished.”
“Because staying alive meant disappearing,” I say. “For both of us.”
He studies me, unblinking, every inch the soldier even flat on his back. The right side of his face bears new scars — latticework over the old ones I remember tracing with my fingers. His plating is newer, darker, not regulation Alliance issue. Someone rebuilt him off-book.
And now he’s here. Inmymedbay.
“I don’t understand,” he murmurs, half to himself. “How are you here? Who sent me?”
“That’s above my clearance level.”
The lie tastes bitter.
He must see it, because his lips curve into something close to a smile — cruel, amused, broken. “Still lying.”
“Still breathing,” I shoot back.
For a heartbeat, his expression softens. Then the sedatives pull at him again. He fights them, body arching, and a guttural sound tears from his throat — not quite a roar, not quite a word. The monitors wail.
“Enough.” Drel moves toward the console.
“I’ve got it.” I grab the manual override syringe, draw the next dose. The liquid glows faintly blue in the vial. “Hold him.”
Drel braces the shoulder. Even weakened, Vael’s strength is obscene; the table groans beneath him. His hand catches my wrist mid-motion, claws digging into my sleeve. The contact burns through the fabric.
“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t touch me.”
“Then stop fighting,” I snap.
Our eyes meet again — fury against fear. Then something shifts. His grip slackens, confusion bleeding through the rage. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispers, words slurred as the sedative starts to bite. “You were mine…”
My throat closes. I push the plunger.
