Page 4 of The Steel Beast’s Heart

"For now."

She walks past me toward the common room, and her shoulder brushes my arm, and the contact sends a jolt through my chest that no intake chart has ever recorded.

I show her to one of the guest rooms, which is upstairs and at the end of the hall. It has a bed and an attached bathroom. I check the sheets, open the hallway closet for an extra blanket. The wool one sits on the top shelf, gray, folded tight the way I fold everything—a habit from EMT training I never shook. I pull it down, and the smell hits first. Cedar and storage, the dry warmth of fabric that nobody has touched in years.

My hands stop on the wool.

I stop by my apartment on the way and grab a shirt from the dresser. At the guest room, I hand her the shirt. "Bathroom's through there. I'll make the bed."

She disappears with the shirt and the door clicks shut. I shake the blanket out over the mattress, tuck the corners, smooth the wool flat. The cedar smell fills the room.

The bathroom door opens. She stands in the doorway in my shirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh, the collar slipping off one shoulder. Her hair hangs loose for the first time since I've known her, copper and tangled past her shoulders. I have treated lacerations, set broken bones, once kept a man's femoral artery clamped for nine minutes waiting for a helicopter. None of those rattled my composure the way this woman in an oversized shirt with her hair down rattles it now.

"Is that clean?"

"It's clean. Sarah cycles the storage linens."

I turn to go. Her hand lands on my forearm.

"Thank you," she says, not letting go. "The hawk needs a tube feeding in two hours. The syringe is in the intake fridge, top shelf. Thirty cc's, body temperature."

"I know. I already have an alarm set."

"Thank you, Tom."

The sound starts in my chest. Low and involuntary, buried so deep in my ribcage that it doesn't reach the air, doesn't break the surface, sits in the bone and muscle like a vibration from a machine running underground. A purr—the sound minotaurs make when they're close to their mate. I haven't made this sound in fifteen years. The last time, I held Rachel's hand in a movie theater and the purr rolled through me while she pressed her ear to my chest and laughed and said she could hear my engine. I thought it died with her.

Isla's chin drops. Her attention goes to my chest.

She feels it. Through her fingers on my arm, the vibration carries from my chest into the bone and muscle of my forearm and into her hand. Her grip tightens. Her lips part. She looks down at where she's holding me, then up at my face.

I step back. Her hand drops from my arm. I move four feet before my next breath.

"I'll let you know if there are any issues and message Diane. Goodnight, Isla."

"Goodnight."

I leave the room before she asks about the sound my body just made. The sound it hasn't made since Rachel.

My apartment is too quiet at midnight. Quiet enough to hear yourself think, which is the problem. I sit on the edge of the bed and the compound stretches out below me.

I open the nightstand drawer.

Inside: a ring. White gold, size five and a half, a quarter-carat diamond in a cathedral setting that cost me four months of wages. I bought it at a rest stop jeweler off I-5 because Rachel found it in the display case while I pumped gas, held it up, laughed, said it fit. I walked inside and bought it before she put it down. She said yes in the parking lot with diesel fumes in the air and a semi idling in the next lane.

Beside the ring, a photograph, face-down. I know what it holds without turning it over. Brown hair and a crooked smile and her hand on my horn, both of them whole.

I don't touch either one. I close the drawer, and the latch clicks, and the silence after it settles over the room like dust.

In the guest room, Isla sleeps in a wool blanket that smells like cedar. By morning it will smell like her—like wet earth and rosemary and the twelve acres she built from nothing—and I'll know the difference because I've memorized every scent she carries.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The drawer stays closed. The purring stopped the moment I stepped away from her, and my chest feels hollow without it.

I fold my glasses and set them on the nightstand. I lie back and close my eyes and the dark holds the outline of her face, the question she didn't ask.

The answer she wouldn't have liked.

Fifteen years. That sound hasn't happened in fifteen years. And it picked you.