There was a pause, just long enough for him to imagine her biting her lip. Or fiddling with the loose end of her braid, as she always did when her thoughts were racing.
“I don’t think I’m dying anymore,” she said quietly.
His heart skipped a beat. “What?”
“I mean, Doctor Manae doesn’t think I am,” she rushed to clarify.
“Well, that’s a good thing, right?” A spark of hope blossomed in his chest.
“Not necessarily. This stuff I can do, the way my DNA and blood are mutating . . . it could be that something is just starting. I think I’m . . . changing.”
The bloom of hope died.
Christian sat forward, his full attention sharpened. “I’m confused. What are you saying?”
Gemma sighed. “I don’t know for sure, but Gunner, the lore specialist—who’s the Kaizen’s brother, by the way—has been going over the carvings in the temple. He’s been cross-referencing symbols with Revarian root languages, trying to decode the orb’s purpose. And today he showed me this section of script on that alien statue in the middle of the temple. You remember the statue?”
“I do.”
“Well, when I got close to it, the script on it lit up like it recognized me. So”—she paused—“what if the orb wasn’t a virus? What if it was designed to evolve whoever touched it? Like, maybe it was never meant for humans, so now it’s rewriting me to match.”
Silence fell.
Christian’s head swam. He’d seen her eyes flicker violet. He’d watched the way her “powers” seemed to overtake her like a wave of sand. He’d seen her tremble after her nightmares, sweating and gasping like she was clawing her way back from something ancient. But he’d always thought it was killing her. He hadn’t even thought to consider something else.
Until now.
“So, you’re not being consumed,” he said, more to himself than her. “You’re being changed.”
“Maybe,” she whispered. “But we don’t know into what. And that’s what terrifies me.”
He closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. On one hand, he may not lose her, which lit him up like a meteor catching fire in atmosphere. But on the other, if she became someone—something—else, what would happen to the woman he knew? The last time the alien inside her had taken over, she’d slaughtered so many people. And she’d giggled while doing so. Would she lose herself and become the very thing that terrified her while she slept?
“Christian?” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
“Say something. Please.”
He ran his hand down his face. What could he possibly say that would make sense or be helpful? How could he admit to the woman he loved that he was terrified of what she might become, but also thankful she would live?
No, it wasn’t that he was terrified of what she’d become. It didn’t matter what she was. He’d love her anyway. He was terrified of what it meant for her. If she became the very thing that haunted her dreams . . .
He shook his head, swallowing the fear that she’d do anything to keep herself from becoming that. Even at the expense of her life. So, he said the one thing he knew to be absolutely, one-hundred-percent true.
“I will love you, Gemma, no matter what happens. Even if you start glowing or levitating or growing a third arm, I don’t care. I loved you before any of it, and I’ll still love you after.”
A soft whimper crackled through the comm. She was crying. Stars, what he wouldn’t give to have her in his arms right now.
“I don’t know why,” she whispered, her voice watery. “You deserve better than all of this. You deserve easy.”
“Easy does not mean better, Gem.”
“But—”
“No. I love you, and nothing you could ever do or become will change that. There are a lot of questions and maybes, but not that. Never that. You’re stuck with me, Proctor.” He tried to make it sound light, but there was nothing light about the hollowness clawing through his chest.
A quiet cry. A sniffle. “Thank you.”
