It also meant he was going to recover much faster than she’d anticipated. Which was good—probably—but also raised some uncomfortable questions about what happened next.
One crisis at a time.
She switched the scanner to the chest readout, checking the progress of the fluid in his lungs. Good. She’d removed the drainage tube thirty minutes ago, but there had been no further fluid accumulation, and his oxygen levels had remained consistent. They were lower than the human norm, but he’d been able to breathe outside without the breathing masks that full humans required. All of which meant his vitals were probably close to… well, to whatever counted as normal for his species. She still didn’t have enough data to establish a proper baseline, but the trend was encouraging.
He’s going to live.
She gave a relieved sigh as the certainty of it settled over her. She hadn’t realized how afraid she’d been until the fear began to ease. This strange, impossible being was going to survive, and?—
He made a distressed sound, low and guttural. Her attention snapped back to his face just as his expression contorted, his peaceful sleep giving way to something darker. His lips pulled back from sharp white teeth—fangs,her brain supplied helpfully,those are definitely fangs—and a rumble built in his chest that made the air vibrate.
Nightmare.
She recognized the signs even before he started moving. The restless shift of limbs, the unconscious reaching for something that wasn’t there, the soft, broken sounds that might have been words in a language dead for millennia.
His wing jerked, nearly knocking the scanner from her hand, and she stumbled back just in time to avoid being hit by his tail as it whipped across the bunk. The flexible appendage was surprisingly expressive even in sleep, coiling and lashing like a separate creature with its own distress.
Dammit.
She needed to wake him up. Or calm him down. Or get the hell out of range before he accidentally crushed something important—like her. But even as the practical, self-preserving part of her brain screamed for retreat, she found herself moving closer instead. He was in pain. Not physical pain but something deeper. Something that twisted his features and pulled sounds from his throat that made her chest ache in sympathy.
I’m an idiot.
Probably. Definitely. But she’d never been able to ignore suffering when it was right in front of her, even when the sufferer could probably kill her without trying.
She reached out, her hand shaking slightly, and laid it against his forearm. The scales there were smooth and warm rather than fevered, and she felt the powerful muscles beneath them coil at her touch.
“Hey,”she said softly, barely above a whisper.“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe.”
Is he? Am I?
She ignored her internal skeptic and focused on the pattern of her breathing, keeping it slow and steady, trying to project a calm she didn’t quite feel. Her thumb feathered slowly across his scales in a soothing motion.
“You’re safe. Whatever you’re dreaming about, it’s not real. Not anymore. You’re here, and you’re alive, and you’re going to be okay.”
Did he understand the words? She didn’t know. But his breathing was starting to even out, the rumble in his chest fading to a low vibration that was more purr than growl. His tail stopped its restless lashing, curling around his own leg instead, and the tension in his muscles slowly began to ease.
Good. That’s good.
She kept up the motion, kept murmuring quiet nonsense, and watched as the nightmare released its grip on him. His expression smoothed, the harsh lines of pain and fear giving way to something that might almost have been peace.
What were you dreaming about,she wondered. The question was accompanied by a wave of something that felt uncomfortably like tenderness.What did you lose that still haunts you?
She knew better than most how the past could sink its claws into your dreams. How you could escape something in your waking hours only to find it waiting for you the moment your eyes closed. The memories she’d spent years outrunning had a way of catching up when she was too tired to keep them at bay.
We’re not so different, are we?
The thought was dangerously sympathetic, and she immediately tried to push it away. She couldn’t afford to get attached. She certainly couldn’t afford to see him as anything other than a complication to be managed. When the storm ended, she would have to figure out what to do with him and that would be much harder if she let herself care.
Too late.
She ignored that thought too and focused on the practical. His breathing was steady now, his body relaxed, the nightmare apparently passed. She should step away and put some distance between them and get back to the important work of not dying.
Instead, she found herself studying his face again, her gaze lingering on the details she’d been too stressed to notice before. The elegant arch of his eyebrows, white as his hair. The sharp line of his jaw, softened by the smooth scales that traced its edge. The slight part of his lips, revealing just a hint of those impressive fangs.
Beautiful,her traitorous brain whispered again.Dangerous and impossible and beautiful.
His eyes opened.
