Page 108 of Shadows of Stardust

For a few long moments, there are no words at all. There’s only the rasp of our shared breath, the warmth of Zan’s touch.

More memories swirl.

Memories of panic and pain. Memories of clawing desperation and the sweet relief of waking on the medic evac ship and learning they all were okay.

Memories of a hospital. Memories of being honorably discharged and sent home to Severin, of never seeing all those fellow soldiers—all thosefriends—again.

“There are ways to fix damage like this,” Zan says softly.

It’s not a question, but I answer him anyway. “There are, but it wasn’t exactly a priority for the Sol Alliance’s medical team. They patched up the internal damage and sent me on my way.”

“And when you came here? It is my understanding that Mate Match offers contestants cosmetic procedures as a perk of their participation in the show.”

The question stirs deeper waters than I’m comfortable diving into right now, so I just shrug. “They offered. I declined.”

The way the Mate Match docs explained it, there would have been no saving the ink if I wanted to get rid of the scars.

I got the tattoos after I was discharged from service, in the dark, awful months waiting to come here and start searching for Savvie. The idea of wiping them all away, of letting the Mate Match team employ nanotech to leave my skin clear and unblemished, like I’d never been injured at all…

It wasn’t something I could stomach.

The tattoos were my way of claiming the scars. They were my way of painting the evidence of my worst chapter with the Sol Alliance with all the beauty I got to experience because of my enlistment. The galaxies and constellations, the flora and breathtaking landscapes, all the sights that still seem impossible when I remember them.

It wasn’t all bad. It can’t have been all bad.

I’m not sure how I could handle it if it was.

“A warrior’s marks,” Zan murmurs, startling me out of my thoughts. “You wear them proudly.”

My throat tightens and tears sting at the backs of my eyes. “I’m not a warrior.”

“Are you not? You left your home to fight alongside your people and provide for those you love. You put your life in danger to save your fellow soldiers. You are a warrior, Roslyn. The best kind of warrior.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to keep protesting.

I’m no warrior.

I was just a kid who had no better options, grasping at the only way out of the bleak reality of my life.

I was terrified most of the time—terrified I’d get killed, terrified I wouldn’t be able to send enough money home for Savvie to be okay.

I’m still terrified.

Aren’t warriors supposed to be strong, fearless, brave?

But Zan holds my gaze, uncompromising, and I almost believe him. I swallow my protests and lay my head back down.

“Sleep, warrior.” Zan’s voice is a low rasp, a gentle rumble in the darkness. “Rest now.”

We shift on the bed, an easy slide of limbs and bodies until I’m on my side and he’s behind me. His muscled, armored, unbelievably gentle body curls around me, arms holding me tight.

He keeps touching me, keeps brushing his fingers over my scars and ink in slow, soothing strokes. And when the touch of his hand is replaced by the soft press of his lips and the cool ghost of his breath against my skin, a tight lump of emotion lodges itself in my throat.

I fall asleep that way, held close and comforted by a mercenary’s touch.

30

Zandrel

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