Page 26 of Sheltered in the Storm

I unwrapped her sheet and set it aside. Bruises and lacerations still marked her body almost from head to toe. The more serious internal injuries would take much longer to heal. Despite the medical scanner reporting they were no longer life-threatening, I worried about unexpected complications, especially if she insisted on exercising.

Should I offer to share blood with her again? I had replenished much of what I had given her a week ago. Another treatment might heal her completely, or close to it.

Then again, I had no idea if sharing my blood had side effects. I had already risked it once. If I harmed her, even without intending to, I would never forgive myself.

“Vos,” Calla said, her gaze searching my face. “You’re staring at me.”

“I apologize. I was checking the condition of your injuries. You appear much improved.” With my tentacles, I lowered her very carefully into the water.

She groaned and flinched. “Go on, go on,” she said when I stilled. “It’s way too hot, and it feelsso good.”

Perhaps everything would be easier if I ceased trying to make what she said make sense.

The sea was my soul’s true home, but any water cradled and caressed me like a mother—or like I imagined a mother might hold a child. I had no memories of the woman who had given birth to me, pleasant or otherwise.

I settled Calla into the tub, holding her with two tentacles curled under her arms to keep her from sliding beneath the water’s surface. The other two traitorous tentacles tried to haul the rest of me into the tub until I forced them to relinquish their grip on its edge. They slipped into the tub on either side of her and swirled the water sulkily.

My tub was large and deep—one of my few indulgences. I had only filled it halfway, but the water level nearly reached her collarbone.

“Should I drain some water so it is not so deep?” I asked.

She glared at me. “Don’t you dare.”

I kept a stack of washcloths and bars of soap on the window ledge. But before I could offer to help wash her, she leaned back against the side of the tub, her head on one of my tentacles as a pillow, and let out a long sigh. “Thanks, Vos,” she murmured.

A comfortable silence settled over us. I did not want to interrupt it, or disturb Calla by staring at her again, so I turned my attention to the large windows and skylight around the tub. Thanks to the steaming water, condensation obscured our view of the sky and yard and the swamp beyond the wall. The morning drizzle had turned once more to a downpour that ran over the slanted skylight and down the windows.

After nearly five years on Iosa, I scarcely noticed the rain anymore, but whenever Calla was near, I noted everything, as if my mind subconsciously wanted to capture every detail of every moment I spent with her.

As a component of an economical and efficient capsule home designed to withstand Iosa’s weather, my bathroom had originally been much smaller. I had doubled the size of this room using part of an old home that had been damaged in a storm and sold for parts. What the resulting space lacked in aesthetics it more than made up for by allowing me to have this enormous tub and an overhead shower. On days when I could not make the journey to the sea, the tub provided the peace and tranquility I craved of submerging in water.

Calla settled in more comfortably, her hand resting on her abdomen. I had learned that gesture meant she was hurting but did not want to show it.

A coo rose in my throat. Recalling her angry response thelast time I had made the sound, I suppressed it. A sharp pain in my chest made me jerk.

She raised her head, her eyes searching my face. “What’s wrong?”

I opened my mouth to tell her it was nothing but a muscle twinge, but I could not bring myself to lie.

“I instinctively make a sound when you are hurt,” I said. “It appears that if I hold it back, it causes discomfort.”

She flinched again—but this time I did not think it was a reaction to her own pain. “Then don’t hold it in. I don’t want you hurting because of me.” Her expression fell. She had probably realized her departure would do exactly that. “I mean…shit.”

“It is all right,” I said, though that was not entirely true. I simply wanted her to relax again.

She smacked the water with her hand, startling me. “No, it’snotall right. Stop saying you’re fine when you aren’t.”

“I might say the same to you,” I said mildly.

Despite her fit of pique, her mouth twitched. “Okay, that’s fair.” She rested her head against my tentacle again. “Let’s make a deal, then. We don’t tell each other we’re okay if we’re not.”

“I accept.” I risked allowing the end of one of my unoccupied tentacles to wrap around her right ankle. When she snuggled against my hold and did not protest, I decided to take another risk. “Will you tell me of your past, Calla? I would very much like to know where you are from and why you chose to be a fighter pilot.” And why she trusted no one, though I did not add that part.

She did not become tense or angry, but she said nothing for a very long time. I stayed quiet and let her think.

“I could tell you it’s a long story, but it really isn’t,” she said finally, her tone as dry as the deserts of Solan. “Really, I can tell it in five words: I was born on Ganai.”

My breath caught in my chest, and despite the steamy heat in the room, horror turned me cold all the way to my core.

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