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  Darcy and Zara were talking in whispers some six feet ahead of me. Probably Zara had no idea what my hearing was capable of, because she didn't hide her contempt.

  "You have to be shitting me, Darcy," she was saying. "He stole an engineer's badge, and already he's treated this place like his playground."

  Darcy's hand went to her sister's shoulder. "He won't do it again. I promise you."

  Zara stiffened, stepped out from under her hand. Her walls were up so high they sat practically visible around her, as thick as stone. "Fine, I'll give him one night in a recovery room. If he heals as quickly as you say, it shouldn't be a problem."

  We came out into the light, and before us sat a two-story rectangular building with windows set scattershot into its stone sides. Operating rooms wouldn't have windows, I thought.

  As we crested the side of the building, a sign came into view: a white square with a red cross atop it.

  Darcy glanced back at me, a visual confirmation. This was the place.

  Zara fell back a few steps, stopped to open the door and usher us inside. We came into a long, dimly lit room, lanterns blooming with small swells of light from where we stood to the far back.

  It reminded me of the facility's mess, except instead of rows of neatly aligned tables, the hospital offered rows of cots.

  And only two of them were occupied. This doctor was either very good, or not many people needed treatment.

  "Dr. Sorin," Zara called.

  A thin man bent over one of the cots rose, ticked his glasses up the bridge of his nose to see us better. When he came over, he walked like a man who spent much of his time seated at patient bedsides.

  So probably a good doctor.

  He came to stand in front of the three of us. "Zara, you've brought, oh my—" He'd spotted Darcy's wound, and then his milky eyes rose to her face. "Darcy," he said, his eyebrows lifting at the center.

  "Hi, Dr. Sorin," she said.

  "We need one of the operating rooms," Zara said. "And a private recovery room for tonight."

  Dr. Sorin's eyes flitted to Zara, and then up to me. At some point in the morning he'd taken the time to comb his wispy hair over his scalp, and to shave his beard with the exact precision of a man who had done so for decades.

  He gave a single nod, still looking at me as though he knew Darcy's sling had nothing to do with it. "This way."

  Eight

  Friday, May 9, 2053

  1:05 p.m.

  Darcy

  We came into one of the hospital's smaller operating rooms, the four of us pressing into the small anteroom. Dr. Sorin turned to me. "Will this do?"

  I came forward, pulling him into a hug with my good arm. "Yes. Thank you."

  He chuckled against me. "I'm just glad you're back. I consider you two my non-biological daughters; I was the one who saw you into the world, after all."

  I leaned back to meet his gaze, struck with sudden emotion. All those years, I hadn't known he felt that way. "I'm glad to see you, too."

  As I said it, a bell struck in the main room of the hospital. I recognized it at once, having spent years volunteering and later interning here: a semi-urgent case.

  "I have to go see about that," Dr. Sorin said. "Are you sure you'll be all right in here?"

  I nodded. "Yes—go."

  When the door closed behind Sorin, Zara stepped into the space alongside Blaze and me, arms folded. "Let's get this bang-up show on the road."

  "Right," I said, stepping to the sink to sanitize. "Zara, I'm going to need you as my assistant."

  I heard her solid steps behind me, and then her agitated face appeared in my periphery. "What?!"

  "I did a patch-up on my shoulder, but I can't use the arm for an operation this delicate," I said, still running my fingers under the water. "I'm going to need your hands."

  "You do not want my hands," Zara said. "Shit—I'm a soldier, not a surgeon. Get Sorin."

  "You'll be fine," I said, spinning around to grab two masks off the shelf. I searched around for a razor. "Wash your hands."

  "Blaze, you can't possibly feel comfortable with this," she said, though I heard the sink running and her hands moving under the water.

  "If Darcy trusts you, I trust you," he said simply.

  She turned, let an exasperated sigh as I presented her with a mask and the razor I'd just found. "We don't have time to debate this," I said. "I need you. This will save his life."

  That unfamiliar formality came over her again, and she finally grabbed both from me. "Fine."

  When we'd finished our preparations, Blaze sat on the operating table, nearly naked except for thin a dressing gown. His muscular legs dangled off, and he was touching the spot at the back of his head where Zara had shaved the hair away. "If I didn't stand out before, I will now."

  I stepped up between his thighs, our faces closer together. "Don't worry—you'll still be just as handsome. We'll just have to put a hat on you until your hair grows back."

  He leaned forward, both arms sliding around my waist, and kissed me with the urgency I knew we both felt.

  From the corner, Zara groaned. She stepped forward with the scalpel in hand. "If you two keep doing that, I consider it my right to back out of this operation."

  The two of us smiled—though I felt more nervous than anything—and I set my hand to Blaze's chest. "Lay on your stomach."

  "I didn't expect our first time to be this way," he murmured, settling onto the operating bed, his face turned toward us. "But I'll take it."

  I smiled, and I realized then we were alike in that way: we both preferred a little humor when times got dire.

  I touched the spot where I'd injected the numbing drug. "Can you feel that?"

  "Feel what?"

  "We're good," I said to Zara, pulling my mask up to my face.

  She stepped forward with the scalpel. "You sure you don't want the stronger anesthetic?"

  "I've been asleep for nearly all of my life," Blaze said. "I don't want to sleep through any more of it than I have to."

  Her blue eyes flicked to me, and I nodded. It would just be a single incision—and then, of course, the process of removing it. "Where do I cut?" she said.

  I motioned with my hand. With the ceiling light illuminating his neck, my fingers traced the spot; I could feel the square just beneath the skin. Right beside his artery. “You just need to make one straight incision,” I said, indicating with my finger. "Right here."

  That was sort of true. The chip was actually wired straight into his brain—we would need to make a cut large enough that she could swipe the wires with the tip of the scalpel and slide the device out.

  Of course, we had to do those things without puncturing his artery or damaging the chip. Zara had to walk a vanishingly fine line, but telling her that would only make her less accurate.

  If I knew anyone, I knew my sister. Her perfectionism would give her too much anxiety.

  Zara hesitated, and I stood close to her. "You can do this," I whispered.

  Blaze had become very still, even his breathing slowing until he seemed almost like a statue. I didn’t know quite how he managed it, but I would use the opportunity.

  Zara breathed in deep, set the point of the blade just above the top right corner of the chip. She pressed until a bead of blood rose, and then she drew the tip downward from just above the head of the chip to just below the bottom.

  Blaze didn’t flinch.

  "Good," I said. I angled my face around to get a closer look. There it was, the black plastic just under the skin.

  "Just slide the scalpel under the chip," I told her. "One swipe, nice and easy through the wire."

  "If this thing explodes, I'm going to haunt you forever," Zara breathed. But she did as instructed, her hand shaking a little too hard. With one jerk, she swiped the blade through the wire.

  “All good?” I said to Blaze.

  He responded with the tiniest wink.

  And then, all at once, he started bleeding from the inci
sion—hard, fast, blood pouring down his neck onto the table.

  Zara had nicked the artery.

  "No, no, no," Zara said, her hands shaking over the spot like she could press the blood back inside. "What now? What now?!"

  “Pull it out,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Before we could treat him, she needed to remove the chip. "Get the chip out, Zara."

  But it was like she'd forgotten everything. "How?" she said, panic in her voice.

  I pressed my finger overtop the skin where the chip was. "Slide it out with the scalpel."

  Together, we created enough pressure to ease the chip out from beneath the skin. He was already bleeding all over the table, more blood than I'd seen in years.

  "You'll be okay," I said to Blaze, spinning toward the far wall. "You'll be okay," I said again, though he probably couldn't hear me. I needed to hear it myself.

  Large tears slid from Zara's eyes onto her white mask. "What do we do, Darcy?"

  But there wasn't time to talk; I was already making for the clamp. I had done this before, and I knew exactly what to do. But that didn't make this any less terrifying.

  You'll be okay, I thought. You'll be okay. Be okay.

  11:24 p.m.

  I woke to the sound of humming.

  My eyes opened, lifted to the single lightbulb above, then to the window. Only darkness outside; it had gotten late while we were in the hospital. Was it still the same day?

  I lifted my head, found myself on a hospital bed. That was right...I had fallen asleep here. All of it came back to me: the operation, Zara nicking the artery. The clamp and the cauterization to stop the bleeding.

  After I'd stabilized him and transported him to the recovery room, Zara had brought Dr. Sorin to me, insisted on letting him treat the wound to my shoulder.

  Painkillers seeped through my system. Dr. Sorin had put me under for the procedure, which I was grateful for. As a doctor myself, I knew it would be a painful cleaning and then suturing. For once, it felt good to sleep through it all.

  So we'd both been recovering.

  I turned my head right, and there was Blaze, his head wrapped in gauze. His chest rose and fell with the sound of his humming.

  He glanced toward me, cracked a half-smile. "Hey."

  Beside him, an IV dripped fluids into a tube connected to his arm.

  "Hey," I said, testing my ability to sit up on my left elbow. "That's a pretty song. Where'd you learn it?"

  He closed his eyes for two beats, opened them. "I don't know."

  "What day is it?" I asked.

  "It's the same day," he said. "May 9th."

  "Feels like it's been about a year," I said, easing myself up to a seated position. My right side was stiff, the shoulder heavily bandaged, the arm in a sling.

  "You said it." His eyes flicked to the ceiling, and one of his hands eased behind his head.

  "Hey, don't touch that."

  He smiled, lowered his hand. "Okay, Doctor. The chip's out though, right?"

  I reached to the end table, where Zara had placed it after the operation. I lifted the chip, tossed it to him. “Now you’re free. Here's your souvenir."

  He raised a hand, caught it with perfect reflexes. He inspected the object, turning the square in his fingers. “Can it still be detonated?”

  I laughed lightly. “It needs to tap into the electricity of your body in order for that to happen.”

  He nodded, setting it back on the nightstand by his bed. His hand came out toward me, the palm open. The IV line snaked out from the back of his hand. "Come here."

  I reacted almost on instinct, standing. I walked the three feet to his bed, stood beside it. The two of us gazed at one another in silence for a moment.

  "Closer," he said.

  I sat down on the bed's edge. His hand lifted to my cheek, and I closed my eyes, sank into the warmth of his touch. He stroked my hair from my face, pressing it behind my ear, tracing down to the earlobe.

  Before this week I had never known an infiltrator’s seductive fingers, and now that I did, my body felt frozen to place.

  "Closer," he murmured.

  I leaned down toward him, and his lips met mine with the barest touch. His scent was everywhere in this tiny space, flooding my nose, the crevices of my body. My stomach flipped, and I leaned toward him, seeking more.

  He allowed our lips to touch again—a little longer—and the taste of him was intoxicating. My mouth opened and his tongue found the space between my lips, licking, meeting my own. Something swelled in my chest, a feeling. Snow, a forest, the stars like grains of sand.

  And then I pressed myself into him, wrapping my arms around his neck, my mouth hungry on his. He let a small groan, his hand sliding to my back. This—all of this—felt as real as the dream I'd had in my cabin.

  The sensations, the feeling of rightness. My body seemed to know by instinct how to move with his: to kiss, to touch, to stroke.

  Both his hands moved up and down the hollow of my back, his fingers along my spine. His lips were elsewhere now, on my cheek, my nose, my eyelids. Everywhere he touched left a lingering warmth, a wanting. The space between my legs was growing, opening.

  He backed me to my bed, his chest pressed to mine, his thick arms at either side of my head as he nudged my face aside, kissed a line down my neck.

  I gasped, writhing as he sucked with each kiss along my chest. His hand slid down the line of my body, struck up under my shirt. His finger was on my navel, tracing upward.

  “Blaze,” I whispered, arching my back toward his fingers, willing him to find my hard nipples. He followed the line of my bra across my chest, teasing me. His hand slid behind my back, and before I knew it, my bra clip was undone.

  He pulled back, lifting my shirt and bra with soft, tracing movements, his fingers following the bottom swell of my breasts as he looked on. On his face was written longing, desire—something else, something deeper. Pain.

  My hand reached out to his face, and he met it with his cheek, kissing his way down the length of my wrist and forearm. My fingers slid over his shoulders as he lowered his mouth to my chest, the tip of his capable tongue outlining the left areola.

  His hand stroked the right with the touch of a butterfly’s wings, making me shiver. “Please,” I murmured, urging him with my hand.

  He accepted, his tongue flicking over my nipple. I gasped; the suddenness of it was like an electric line right down the center of my body. My hand slid to his neck, rubbing, pressing.

  He lowered me to the hospital bed, sank atop me. His fingers encircled the other nipple while his tongue worked, and I writhed under his ministrations, my hips shifting on bed, my breath catching every time his tongue flicked.

  My hands slid down his chest, feeling the ripple of muscle. When I reached his pants, my fingers slid over his massive bulge. It jerked under my fingers, pressing against the restraining cloth, and he groaned.

  His free hand swept under my chest, pressing me to his mouth.

  His teeth raked my nipple, and I yelped, grasped harder at him. He let a reflexive thrust, sliding through my hand. When his head lifted, his pupils were large as grapes on me.

  His mouth was open, his breath hot on my chest and neck. “I need you,” he rasped.

  In response, I gripped him hard. My face went forward and our mouths met, the kisses more intense—wilder, wetter, our tongues pressing. One of his hands pressed my legs apart, and he was between me, all 250lbs of him.

  He reached behind his back to pull his shirt up over his gauzed head, and all of his perfection rendered me speechless. One of his hands was at his pants now, undoing the button.

  “Blaze, I—I’m—“ I began, uncertain how to say it.

  He waited, amusement lifting his brows. “Yes, Darcy?”

  “I’ve never done this before,” I admitted.

  His full lips curled into a smile. “You have—every night. Every night since I knew you I’ve dreamt of you. And I know you’ve dreamt of me.”

&nbs
p; I blinked, my mouth opening. How? “I don’t—how did you—“ I sputtered. But the look in his eyes silenced me. This wasn’t a time for talking.

  I sat up, taking hold of the waist of his pants and undergarments and jerking them down. What sprang free was—well, more enormous than I remembered. Pink and smooth, a perfectly shaped head and massive shaft. I didn’t even know if I could get my hand around it.

  He leaned forward, pulling my shirt and bra over my head. My hand went to cover my chest, but he gently pulled it aside, pressing his face into my breasts, kissing, covering me with his entire body. His erection was like a brand on my belly, sliding up and down, lower and lower.

  His fingers slid down, found the space between my legs. He ran a finger up the slick space, pressing over my engorged clit. I moaned, spreading my thighs further for him.

  His eyes were on my face as his fingers circled, circled, stimulating me to a growing warmth. “I want you inside me,” I whispered, my eyes veiled on him.

  He growled, his face darkening, the head of his erection now poised at the point of entry. “It will hurt,” he murmured, “and then it won’t hurt. It won’t hurt at all,” he promised, his eyes traveling between mine as his hand went around my head, gripping me close to him as he drove himself hard and deep into me, filling me completely with one stroke.

  I cried out with the sudden pain, the sensation of being stretched to my limit. A series of emotions crossed his face: empathy; discovering; pleasure; hunger; the feeling of perfect meeting—a key into a lock.

  When he began to move inside me, his mouth came over mine and I was overwhelmed. It seemed as though he ribbed along every sensitive spot inside me, each tiny motion nearly explosive, sending ribbons of pain—no, pleasure, pure, unadulterated pleasure through me.

  “Oh God,” I whispered into his mouth. His body understood: he moved a little faster, every stroke a thrust right up against me, his pubic bone grinding hard against my throbbing clit. “Oh God,” I said again, my hips now in unconscious motion, meeting his movements as the warmth pooled inside me, growing and growing.