Page 147

I do not turn.

Her footsteps stop at the threshold. She moves quietly when she wants to, which is never as quietly as she thinks. The chamber carries the soft scrape of her boots, the rustle of her coat, and the faint hitch in her breathing from exhaustion she is determined to treat as an inconvenience rather than a warning. Even now, even with my thoughts in ruins, my body knows her location with humiliating precision.

“You should remain with the archive,” I say.

“Wow. Warm welcome. Really glad I chased the brooding war mountain down the existential hallway.”

“I am not brooding.”

“No, of course not. You are standing alone in a dark side chamber clawing ancient stone while radiating emotional catastrophe. Very cheerful. Very vacation brochure.”

My hand tightens against the pillar. “Go back, Anita.”

“No.”

I finally look at her.

She stands just inside the chamber, silver archive-light faint on her dark brown skin and tangled black curls. Dust streaks one cheek. Her green eyes are tired, frightened, and stubborn enough to make whole governments regret issuing permits. The sight of her should steady me. Instead, it worsens the ache, because if the bond is only another engineered mechanism, then even this pull toward her might not belong to me.

“You should not be here,” I say.

“Probably true. Unfortunately, I have a long and well-documented history of ignoring sensible advice.”

“This is not another hazard boundary for you to mock.”

Her expression shifts. The humor does not vanish, but it softens around concern. “I know.”

“No, you do not.”

The words come out too harshly. They echo against black glass overhead and return diminished, which somehow makes them worse. Anita does not flinch. I almost wish she would. Anger needs impact to feel real.

She steps deeper into the room. “Then tell me.”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“That is a lie.”

“Anita.”

“Do not Anita me in that tone. I am serious.” She folds her arms, but her hands tremble before she hides them beneath her sleeves. “You walked away from us without saying a word. You looked like someone had cut the air out of your lungs. I am not going to stand beside the biggest discovery in history and pretend I didn’t notice the man I love disappearing into a ruin by himself.”

The man I love.

The words strike harder than any blow.

My chest clenches. I look away because if I keep looking at her, I will believe her, and if I believe her, I will have to admit I want the words even now. Especially now. Even stripped of certainty, even standing in the wreckage of every sacred assurance my people gave me, some desperate part of me reaches for her voice like warmth in vacuum.

“You should not say that here,” I say.

“Why? Because the room has opinions?”

“Because you do not know what love means anymore.”

Her mouth tightens. “Excuse me?”

“None of us do.”

She crosses the remaining distance in three quick steps. “That is grief talking, not logic.”