Page 42 of She Who Devours the Stars
I tried. I really did. I had a list of questions, none of which I could remember now. I forced myself to recall the first one: “Why did you let it escalate? You could have stopped the mythship, or run, or even surrendered. But you stayed.”
Fern’s eyes darkened. “Because running never worked for me.”
I waited. She waited longer. I gave in first.
“It’s not that simple,” I said. “If you were anyone else—”
“But I’m not,” she said, voice suddenly sharp. “I’m me. And you’re still trying to decide if that means I’m a threat or a trophy.”
The truth of it stung.
She took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “Want to know what I think?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“I think you’re lonely,” Fern said. “Not just now. Always. I think the only reason you’re here, instead of hiding behind protocol, isbecause you wanted to see what would happen if you let yourself go off-script.”
She leaned in, closer. I could smell the steak, the wine, the faint ozone burn of the containment field around her skin. “You ever go off-script, Dyris?”
I bristled. “I am the script.”
Her laugh was a low, broken thing. “Sure.”
The meal proceeded in silence, punctuated by Fern’s small noises of appreciation for the steak and the wine. She ate with the slow relish of someone who’d gone hungry a long time, then decided to never be hungry again. I didn’t eat. I drank, but only enough to keep my hands from shaking.
When she finished, Fern wiped her mouth on a napkin and regarded me. “So. Was this your idea of a peace offering, or did you just want to see if I could be bribed with meat and nostalgia?”
“Neither,” I said. “I wanted to see if you’d accept.”
She stood, circled the table, and stopped behind me. I felt the heat of her body at my back, not touching but close enough that every hair on my arms stood up.
“I’m not the one who needs a peace offering,” she said, her breath warm in my ear.
I stiffened, but didn’t move. “What do you want, Fern?”
She set her hands on my shoulders, gentle, but the weight was absolute. “Want? I want to see how far you’ll go before you break.”
It was a challenge. Not a threat.
I stood, slow, brushing her hands off with deliberate force. I turned, found her staring at me with a mix of amusement andhunger that should have been beneath her, but wasn’t. For a moment, I thought about kissing her. Instead, I said, “I don’t break.”
Her smile widened, and she stepped back, giving me space.
“Maybe not,” she said. “But you bend.”
She walked to the couch and sprawled on it, letting her body fall open in a way that was both calculated and completely unselfconscious. “Come sit,” she said, patting the space beside her.
I hesitated, then did as she asked.
We sat in silence, the only sound the low hum of the jammer as it burned through its remaining battery. She reached for my hand, and I let her take it. Her fingers were warm, her touch almost clinical.
She traced a line up my wrist, to the inside of my elbow. “You’re not like the others,” she said.
I shook my head. “I’m not like anyone.”
“Wrong,” she said, softer. “You’re just like me.”
I shivered. “That’s not possible.”
