When she reached for the neck of her suit to engage her helmet and visor, he moved in a burst of speed. He did not stop until he stood in front of the door controls to the decontamination zone.
She screamed when she turned and saw him standing there, only centimeters from touching her. She jumped backward, stumbling.
He reached forward to help, when she shouted, “Don’t touch me!”
She scurried backward until her spine pressed against the door frame that led to the kitchen—both of them in similar positions as they were only minutes ago.
Her distress, herfear, washed over him, making him pause.
He lowered his hand, unbalanced by her words and emotions. “Why can I not touch you?” His throat hurt from speaking, though it held less sting than earlier.
An odd sound emerged from her lips, a puffy one that ended on a guttural noise from her chest. Her hands clenched and relaxed at her sides.
“Because you did not ask, and I did not give you permission,” she said, her words passing her lips in a tumble.
He allowed her answer to sink inside him. His urge to help had caused her more distress, and the intense emotion coating her face created uncomfortable tightness in his chest.
He found himself saying, “I will not harm you.”
“Good.” The word was short, stabbing like the new emotion that darted toward him. “Now let me leave.”
Her eyes pleaded with him, then shifted to the violent storm raging on the other side of the two sets of transparent doors.
“I cannot do that.” A sound of denial left her lips, so he added, “It is not safe.”
Her barked laugh startled him.
He held still, waiting for another outburst, but she seemed to curl into herself, deflating.
He did not like that, but could not explain why.
Her chest rose and fell in gasping breaths. Her hands continued their clenching.
She shifted her weight fitfully from one foot to the other, then the movement slowed.
Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
Questions crossed her face, but he could not see into her mind to search them out, could only experience the emotions she shot toward him, their strength and ferocity an attack on his mind and body.
They stood that way for long minutes.
“Are you going to change me into Calypson?” she finally asked, her words barely above a whisper.
“No.” She would never be like him.
He could never touch her mind or share her thoughts. A chasm would always separate them, larger than the space that spanned between their bodies in this moment.
Her shoulders slumped, like his words saddened her, and he agreed. To never experience the solar system the way he could was a dispiriting thought.
But he could possibly give her some comfort.
“You are already Calypson.”
Chapter eight
“Bullshit.” The word spewed from Wynn’s mouth.
Confusion-wrapped terror replaced the relief she’d felt after he’d said he wouldn’t hurt her or change her.
