Page 27 of The First Child
“Then we deal with that if it happens. But what if it doesn’t? What if caring about each other makes us better parents instead of worse ones?”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but as she voices it, I see the logic. The empathic connection we share with Aniska grows stronger when we work together in harmony. Perhaps emotional connection between us would enhance rather than complicate that partnership.
“You make it sound simple.”
“Not simple. Just… worth the risk.”
Before I can formulate another objection, she rises up on her toes and kisses me with the kind of careful intensity that suggests she’s thought about this moment as much as I have. Her lips are soft and warm and taste faintly of the experimental sauce we’ve perfected, and the contact sends electricity through every nerve ending.
I lose myself in the sensation of her mouth against mine, in the way she responds when I deepen the kiss with a hunger I can no longer pretend doesn’t exist. My hands settle on her waist, pulling her closer, and she makes a soft sound of approval that reverberates through our empathic connection like a struck crystal.
When we finally break apart, both breathing harder than food preparation would explain, Aniska makes a sound of pure delight from her chair. Her emotional field sparkles with joy, as if she’s waited for this moment of acknowledgment between the two people who love her most.
“She approves,” Hada murmurs against my lips.
“She has excellent judgment.”
“So do we.” Her smile carries enough warmth to make my thermal regulation systems spike in sympathy. “This is going to work, Sylas. All of it. The family we’re building, the feelings between us, the future we’re creating together.”
“You sound remarkably certain for someone advocating an unstructured approach to relationship development.”
“I am certain. About this, about us, about what we can become if we’re brave enough to trust each other.” Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with the natural ease that characterizes everything about our partnership. “Are you brave enough?”
I study her face, noting the way hope and vulnerability combine in her expression. The trust she offers by allowing me to see past her military composure to the woman beneath. The fierce protectiveness that mirrors my own growing attachment to both her and Aniska.
“Yes,” I tell her, meaning it more completely than any promise I’ve ever made. “I am.”
CHAPTER 9
HADA
Three daysof careful dancing around each other is about to drive me insane.
Ever since that kiss in the kitchen—the one that made my knees weak and apparently caused Aniska to project enough empathic joy to trigger environmental responses in three neighboring housing units—Sylas and I have moved through our shared space like we’re afraid of accidentally bumping into each other and spontaneously combusting.
It’s ridiculous. We’re both adults. We both acknowledged the attraction. We both agreed to explore whatever this connection might become. Yet somehow every interaction feels loaded with the kind of tension that makes ordinary conversation feel like diplomatic negotiation.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve faced enemy fire without flinching, led missions through hostile territory with split-second timing, and maintained operational security under interrogation techniques designed to break trained soldiers. But the prospect of navigating romantic feelings for my co-parent makes me nervous as a recruit on their first deployment.
“You’re projecting again.”
Sylas’s voice carries from the kitchen, where he attempts to master the art of human coffee preparation with the same methodical intensity he brings to spiritual meditation. His markings pulse with what I’ve learned to recognize as gentle amusement mixed with concern.
“Projecting what?”
“Frustration. Anxiety. Something that feels remarkably like sexual tension.” He appears in the doorway, two cups in hand and an expression that suggests he finds my emotional transparency more entertaining than alarming. “Aniska is picking up on it.”
I glance toward our daughter, who sits in her adaptive chair watching me with the focused attention of someone analyzing a particularly interesting puzzle. Her empathic field reflects my internal state with uncomfortable accuracy—restless energy that has nowhere productive to go.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize I was broadcasting.”
“The empathic connection we share makes emotional suppression difficult. Perhaps impossible.” He offers me one of the cups, and I’m careful to avoid skin contact when I accept it. Even that minimal precaution feels absurd given how completely I want to touch him, but maintaining some semblance of control seems important for everyone’s sanity.
“Is that going to be a problem? Long-term, I mean.”
“I don’t know. We’re pioneering new territory in terms of human-Zephyrian empathic integration.” He settles into the chair across from mine, maintaining careful distance that feelsboth necessary and frustrating. “How do you feel about having limited emotional privacy?”
The question makes me consider implications I haven’t fully processed. Complete transparency sounds terrifying in theory. Having someone experience every mood swing, every moment of doubt, every flash of desire or anger or vulnerability. But when that someone is Sylas…
