The silver ring on my left hand warms.
Of course it does.
The pen reports all emergency uses to my brothers. I authorized that safety protocol myself. At the time, it seemed responsible. Now its excellent connectivity is going to bite me in the butt. I learned that expression last week, and it has never been more appropriate.
Zymlor appears above the ring in a column of blue light before I can decline the call. His laboratory on Layn shimmers in pieces around him. Hydroponic arrays behind his shoulder. Red grow lamps. Thin-leaf coffee cultivars refuse to thrive in our soil, no matter how much money, genius, or prayer he throws at them.
“Sky.” His eyes narrow at once. “Why did your emergency pen activate?”
“It malfunctioned.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“You have developed a touching faith in machines.”
“You have become a liar.” Zymlor leans closer to the transmission, and his ears angle forward with the focus that made him unbearable as a child and indispensable as an adult. “Your pupils are wrong.”
“My office lighting is terrible.”
“Your left ear is pinned.”
“Earth makes me tired.”
“Your skin tone is running hot.”
“You can't tell that from staring at me, so knock it off. There’s no need for a formal inquiry. The injector misfired. End of story.”
His ears twitch. He stares harder. The scrutiny would be unbearable, but years of receiving similar treatment from my father have prepared me. When he finally sits back, I draw a breath that I quickly lose when he says, “You dosed yourself because you scented an omega.”
End the call. Pretend the signal failed.Earth networks do that often enough to make the lie useful. Instead, I stand in my office and glare at him. “There are omegas everywhere on this planet. It is not like Planet Stice. So, yes. I saw an omega. I experienced a reaction. That's all.”
“So, you found your mate.”
“I did not say that,” I say with an unconvincing snarl. “I experienced an anomaly. I took the meds. That is why you sent them with us. For exactly these types of emergencies.”
Zymlor’s mouth straightens, but a half-smile still sneaks through. “What is her name? Your mate?”
I hate him.
I love him, but he can be the biggest pain in my ass. Another human expression that fits perfectly. Honestly, humans are so good at them.
I do not respond.
“The pen was not built for this,” he finally says when he cannot outwait me. “It treats Earth exposure. Toxins, viruses, atmospheric shock, venom, spores, chemical overload. A dozen ways this planet tries to kill us, other than mate sickness.”
“I know what the pen treats.”
“Then why use it?”
Because Beatrice Watson is a puzzle I still have to figure out. So much about her remains unknown. What do those curves feel like? Are they as soft as they look? Would her curls feel springy against my palm, or would they wrap around my fingers and refuse to let go? Will her voice turn soft when she whispers my name in bed? Who made her laugh? What makes her cry? I needto know that one, so it never happens again. None of these leave my mouth. They are just questions. Questions anyone might have when they encounter something unique. Rare. Beautiful.
“The symptoms are manageable,” I say.
Zymlor’s expression changes. The teasing drains from his face so quickly that my temper cools in response. “No. They are not. Not if you are denying the bond. Not if you are dosing yourself instead of acknowledging what your body is telling you.”
“There is nothing to acknowledge.”
“Sky.”
