"When did this happen?"
"I'm fine?—"
"When did this happen?!"
She met his gaze. "When he grabbed me. It's just a graze. The weapon caught me when you pulled him away."
He stared at her for one long moment.
"You are going to the medic right now," he said. "On your own feet or over my shoulder. Your choice."
She looked at him.
"I will," he said.
"Fine," she said. "On my own feet."
26
ADRYEL
The medical facility at the refinery was nothing like the ones on the light side. Functional. Utilitarian. The kind of place built for miners who'd had accidents with equipment, not for Gol-Vetts and their mates. The walls were bare metal, the lighting harsh and white, and everything smelled faintly of antiseptic and ore.
Adryel sat on the edge of the medical table, her shirt pulled up on one side while a medical droid worked on the gash along her ribs with quiet mechanical efficiency. It wasn't deep. She'd been right about that. But it was long, and it had bled more than she'd let on, and the droid's assessment had included the phrase "delayed treatment" in a tone that managed to sound accusatory for something without vocal cords.
Stron stood with his arms crossed watching the droid work.
He hadn't said anything since they'd gotten here.
That was somehow worse than if he had.
"You can stop looking at me like that," she said.
"Like what?"
"Like I did something wrong."
"You told me you weren't hurt."
"I told you it was nothing," she corrected. "Which it nearly is."
He looked at the droid. At the wound. Back at her.
"It bled through your dress," he said quietly.
She didn't have an answer for that.
The droid finished its work with a soft chime and rolled back, leaving a neat line of closure strips along her ribs. She pulled her shirt down and sat there for a moment, not quite ready to move.
Stron crossed to her. He didn't say anything. Just reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear, his fingers trailing along her jaw after.
She let him.
"I should have told you," she said.
"Yes."
"I didn't want to slow things down."
