His jaw flexes like he wants to shake me and kiss me and throttle me all at once. Mostly throttle.
“You got shot.”
“Grazed,” I correct automatically, because if I don’t correct details, who even am I?
Lonari’s nostrils flare. “Grazed,” he repeats, like it’s a swear.
A medic moves into my peripheral vision—Vakutan, big hands, calm movements, eyes like someone who’s seen too much and doesn’t waste time narrating. He presses something cold against my side and my whole body jolts.
“Hold still,” the medic says. Not unkind. Not comforting. Justfact.
“Wow,” I whisper, teeth gritting. “You guys are really into giving orders.”
Lonari doesn’t look away from me. “Because you’re really into almost dying.”
“Twice in a week,” I mumble. “I’m collecting stamps.”
The medic snorts once, barely. “Pressure seal is holding. Entry is shallow. She got lucky.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Luck didn’t do that. She did.”
My throat tightens in a stupid way I do not appreciate.
I swallow, tasting stale recycled air and the faint bitterness of painkillers already creeping into my bloodstream.
The medbay ceiling is low and utilitarian, everything strapped down: instruments, supply packs, restraint cutters, even the damn chairs. The lighting is cool-white, designed toshow bruising and blood clearly. There’s a faint vibration in the bed beneath me as the ship maneuvers.
I blink slowly, trying to get my head to stop swimming.
“Where is he,” I say, and my voice is flatter than I feel.
Lonari’s expression turns colder. “Contained.”
“Alive?” I push.
Lonari holds my gaze. “Alive.”
Relief hits so hard I almost cry, which is unacceptable, so I swallow it and convert it into anger.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because I want him to watch what happens next.”
Lonari’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile that isn’t soft at all. “That’s my girl.”
I hate the warmth that phrase puts in my chest.
I close my eyes for a second, then open them again because I don’t trust sleep. Sleep is when people disappear.
“How bad is it?” I ask, nodding faintly toward my side.
“Bleeding stopped,” the medic says. “Tissue damage. You’ll be sore. No major organ involvement.”
“Sore,” I repeat, deadpan. “Love that for me.”
The medic tapes something down. The tape pulls against my skin and I wince.
Lonari’s hand—large, careful—rests near my shoulder without touching, like he’s giving himself permission to be close but not invasive.
“You saved yourself,” he says quietly.
