“Cassian!” I grab his good arm, shaking him. “Cassian, wake up!”
He flinches, his eyes snapping open. He looks lost. Then his gaze finds my face, and his eyes sharpen.
“I’m here,” he rasps, leaning his head back against the wall. “Just resting my eyes.”
I let out a shaking breath.
“We need to sleep,” I say. “You need to rest.”
“I need to check the perimeter sensors,” he argues weakly.
“Varro has the perimeter,” I remind him. “You have me.”
I step closer, placing my hand gently on his good shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t move. He searches my face, looking for the fear, for the hatred.
He doesn’t find it.
Leaning his head against my stomach, he lets out a deep sigh.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”
The fight goes entirely out of him. For once, he lets me be the strong one.
Tonight, I will be his anchor.
22
IRIS
I guide Cassian away from the stainless-steel medical station, leaving the bloody gauze behind. I’m still running on raw adrenaline, my hands having moved purely on instinct as I blindly followed his grunted instructions to pack his wound. The command center is harsh blue server-light and cold concrete, but the door at the back leads somewhere quieter.
I push it open.
It reveals the bunker’s inner quarters, separated from the noise and the screens: concrete walls, but softer lighting. There’s a kitchenette, a small table, and a bed in the corner—a simple mattress on a metal frame, dressed in gray wool blankets.
It could pass for a monk’s cell. Or a soldier’s final retreat.
“Sit,” I say, guiding him toward the bed.
Without arguing, he sinks onto the mattress, the springs groaning under his weight. He leans back against the cold concrete wall, closing his eyes. His skin is stark white against the dark gray of the blanket.
I stand there for a moment, my hands hovering, unsure of what to do with them. They’re scrubbed raw from the sink, but I still feel the phantom warmth of his blood on my fingers. Theringing in my ears dials down from a scream to a high, thin whine, letting the silence of the room settle around us.
“Water,” he whispers.
“Right. Yes.”
I go to the kitchenette, find a glass, and fill it from the tap.
I walk back and hand it to him.
His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass, draining it in one long pull. Setting it on the floor, he looks up. His eyes are pitch dark, heavy with exhaustion, and focused entirely on me.
“You look like a ghost,” he says.
“I feel like one,” I admit.
