Page 12 of Wings
A sound escaped her—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. She dropped to her knees so fast I thought she'd fallen, but then her hands were moving, gathering scattered supplies with desperate efficiency. Her scrubs rode up as she leaned forward, and I caught a glimpse of pale skin stretched too tight over her ribs.
"Shit," she whispered, and then the real sob came.
Three morphine vials lay shattered in a puddle of something dark and oily. The liquid medication spread like tears, wasted potential for someone's pain relief. She pressed the heel of her hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking once before she got control.
"Doc's going to—" She cut herself off, resuming her frantic gathering. A roll of tape had landed near my boot. When I bent to retrieve it, she flinched.
Actually flinched. Like I might hurt her.
The Ki I knew had never flinched from anything. She'd faced down Alex's temper, her father's disapproval, the judgment of a whole town that thought she could do better. But this woman moved like violence was always just one wrong word away.
What the fuck had happened in the three years I'd been gone?
"Let me help," I said, keeping my voice soft. Battlefield soft, the tone that said no sudden movements, no threats here.
She didn't answer, just kept grabbing supplies with shaking hands. A package of gauze had landed in a puddle of antifreeze. She picked it up anyway, the white cotton already staining green at the edges. Everything salvageable went into her bag with the efficiency of someone who'd learned not to waste anything, ever.
I lowered myself carefully, extending the prosthetic for balance while my good knee took the weight. The position put us at eye level, close enough that I could smell hospital disinfectant and something floral—shampoo maybe, or the ghost of perfume applied twelve hours ago.
"Ki—"
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. "Don’t call me that. Not anymore."
"Sorry," I said. "Kiara Mitchell, then?"
Something in her face crumbled at that, just for a second. Then the walls slammed back up, higher and thicker than before.
She'd lost more than weight.
Up close, I could see the fine lines around her eyes that hadn't been there before, the way her hands trembled slightly before she'd clench them into fists. Her scrubs hung loose on her frame, and there was a defensive hunch to her shoulders that spoke of constant vigilance.
The girl I'd known had been all warmth and light, even when dealing with Alex's bullshit. She'd had this way of tilting her head when she listened, really listened, like whatever you were saying was the most important thing in the world. Now she kept her head down, hair falling forward like a curtain.
An antibiotic vial had rolled under a pipe. I reached for it, the movement bringing me closer to her orbit. She tensed but didn't pull away.
"You still think about the butterfly garden?" The question came out without planning, soft as moth wings.
Her hands stilled on a package of surgical tape. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. Then, so quiet I almost missed it: "Sometimes."
She tucked that strand of hair behind her ear—the nervous gesture that meant she was fighting something internal. In the old days, it had been about choosing between speaking her mind or keeping peace. Now it seemed like the fight was just to speak at all.
"When I can't sleep," she added, still not looking at me.
The butterfly garden at the botanical center had been Alex's idea for his nineteenth birthday, but he'd gotten bored after twenty minutes. Left Ki and me sitting on a bench while he went to flirt with some girl by the koi pond. We'd spent two hours watching monarchs dance through the air, Ki sketching in her notebook while I pretended to read the plaques. Really, I'd been watching her—the way she bit her lip when concentrating, how her eyes lit up when she captured movement just right.
"I dream about them sometimes," she continued, surprising me. "The monarchs. How they migrate thousands of miles on wings that look like they'd tear in a strong breeze. Fragile things doing impossible journeys."
For a moment, I considered asking what impossible journey she was on, what had driven her to change her name and worknights and flinch when men moved too fast. But I held my tongue.
"I'm sorry," I said instead. "About . . . this. When Doc said I was meeting K. Mitchell I didn’t think—"
"That's what I go by now." Her voice had that careful neutrality that took effort to maintain. "Santos was . . . complicated."
Complicated. Such a small word for what I suspected was an epic fucking disaster. In my family, in our culture, you didn't just change your name without reason. Marriage, witness protection, or running from something that had teeth. Given the way she moved, the wariness that clung to her like perfume, I had a pretty good idea which one.
The memory hit me sideways—my going-away party. Alex's arm around her waist, possessive and proud. The way she'd smiled when she wished me well, bright and false as costume jewelry. How Alex had gotten drunk and started talking about their future, kids and a house and all the things I'd wanted to give her but couldn't.
I'd left the party early, claiming an early flight. Really, I'd sat in my truck in the parking lot, watching through the window as she helped Alex to a booth, patient with his sloppy affection. Even then, I'd known something was off. The way she'd held herself apart even while being held. Like she was already halfway gone.
