Page 32 of Sheltered in the Storm

“I am not sure,” I admitted. “I do not know much about the physiology of Fortusian true mates. But my hearts tell me it is so.”

Calla leaned against my hand on her cheek and closed her eyes. Whether she realized it or not, she would not close her eyes if she did not trust me.

“Your true mate brings you peace, even in your dreams?” she murmured. “That’s really lovely. It’s almost like magic…except it’s science.”

Calla’s mind was very practical and pragmatic. She had been raised as a gladiator in the arena, where analyzing opponents and preparing strategy was a matter of life and death, and then trained by the Defense as a fighter pilot. Science and analysis offered her a firm foundation—something she found safer than emotion.

I understood because I too had always found comfort in practicalities, but my life had become full of wonders since Calla came. I wished for her to feel some of the same awe.

“It is science, but that does not mean it is not also magic.” Irested my forehead on hers. “Tell me about Keela, please. I would like to know.”

Instead, she snuggled into my chest. I cooed and held her. She relaxed against me with a sigh, but still she said nothing.

What other comfort could I offer? What might make her feel she could unburden herself to me? Perhaps a story of my own.

Everything about my training and service in the Silent Guard was strictly confidential, under penalty of death. Decades of indoctrination made my stomach twist and hearts race at even the idea of sharing one of those secrets. Not for the first time, and likely not for the last, my need to comfort and care for Calla clashed with my Guard conditioning.

As I had done on the night Calla’s fighter crashed in the ocean, I followed my hearts because that way lay joy and the potential to comfort my mate. What were the Guard’s threats against that?

“I have told you I was made to serve in the Silent Guard,” I said, my lips against her hair. “And that is true, in the same way you telling me you were born on Ganai is true. They are simple ways to say big, terrible truths. The reality is much worse and more complex than that.”

She nestled her nose against my chest over my primary heart. Already her breathing had slowed and she no longer smelled like pain and unshed tears.

“I do not remember the woman who carried me, gave birth to me, and cared for me until I reached two standard years of age,” I told her. “I have tried throughout my life to recall a single memory—a scent, a voice, even an impression—and I have none. My trainers and handlers at the Guard told me she was no one of importance and I should not spare her a thought. But I wanted so much to remember her, because to me she was my mother, my only family. The only person who had ever cared about me in any way. To everyone I knew, I was nothing more than as an investment or asset who could be easily replaced.”

She took a shaky breath. “I can relate to that.”

“I know.” I kissed her hair and continued my tale. “I quickly learned never to speak of this to anyone. Guard trainees are encouraged to inform on members of their cohorts as a way of weeding out those who are…unsuitable.”

Even so many years later, my throat closed on that word and my stomach clenched. To be deemedunsuitablewas to disappear from the Guard training facility during the night without a trace, all belongings gone, empty bunk neatly made with clean bedding awaiting its next occupant. No one knew what befell these vanished trainees, but death was the unspoken assumption.

Calla slipped her much-smaller hand into mine. I did not squeeze because it was her right hand, not yet healed after being so badly broken by a raider’s boot. Just holding her hand chased away the sickness in my gut created by these memories.

“When I was young, I imagined my mother would come to the training facility sometimes to observe me,” I said. “Outside visitors were rare, but sometimes we would see unfamiliar people watching us train or sitting in classes. I did not know if she also had cephalopod characteristics, so to me, any of these female visitors might be her. I imagined what career she might have, if she might have a mate, if she had given birth to any other children. She lived a robust and full life in my imagination. I kept it all very secret, of course. You are the only person to ever hear of it.”

She squeezed my hand then, just a little—all she could manage to do without causing herself pain. And she pressed her lips to my chest over my primary heart. It was not quite a kiss, but I lost my ability to breathe.

Finally, I found my voice again. “For Fortusians created to serve in the Guard, primary training begins between the ages of two and four standard years and continues until age fifteen. Those who survive primary training are then divided based ontheir inherent abilities and strengths and ranking within the cohort and begin a four-year intensive, specialized training regimen. Upon completion, the Guard decides who will be designated as elite Silent Guard assassins, and who to sell at auction as bodyguards, private operatives, and such.”

Calla let out a little unhappy sound. Had she faced the prospect of being sold once her training was complete? The thought chilled me.

“Obviously, the Guard elected to keep me,” I said. “When they did, I was given access to my official file. The purpose of this is to demonstrate the level of scrutiny I had lived under and should expect for the entirety of my twenty years of service. Every tiny detail of my life was in the file, from birth onward.”

She raised her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Her information was in the file?”

“Yes.” For twenty-five years I had held this secret locked away. I took a deep breath through my nose and gills to fortify myself. “Her name was Deia, and she was an employee of the Silent Guard. During her prime childbearing years, she was a surrogate mother for six children. She cared for these children until the age of two standard years, when they began Guard training. I was the fourth of these six children.”

She flinched, but I did not think physical pain caused it. “Go on,” she said, her hand squeezing mine so gently it felt like a flutter.

“I did not have a mother,” I said, my voice tight with grief that only now, so many years later, I allowed to surface. “A woman carried me to term, gave birth to me, and worked as my caregiver for my first two years of life, and then handed me over. It was her job to do so. She did not visit me during my training. She did not love me or care for me as a mother. My ‘mother’ was a figment of my imagination.” I focused on Calla’s scent and warmth until I could continue. “And as I read my file in front of my superiors, I had to take in that informationwithout showing any emotions at all. If I had reacted, I likely would have been either sold at auction or killed outright.”

“Oh, Vos.” Calla withdrew her other hand from her blankets and clasped mine in both of hers. Her tears spilled over and ran down her face. “Gods, I am sorry.”

My stomach churned because I had caused her grief by sharing this story. She likely would feel the same about sharing her own stories with me, and terribly vulnerable as well. Such vulnerability required as much courage as facing opponents in the arena or enemies in battle.

I ached because I had reopened this wound. It had festered for a very long time. Perhaps now it could heal.

And perhaps my Calla—yes,my Calla—and I could find a way to heal together, one story at a time.

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