Page 12 of Aries

“Almost done,” I murmur. “Just need something to…”

She passes back a leather tie without looking, our fingers brushing in the exchange. More electricity, more awareness that I shouldn’t acknowledge.

“There.” Sitting back, I watch as she reaches up to feel the results. The sight of her fingertips tracing the pattern I created makes my heart swell.

Morning light catches her hair, making it glow like honey as she turns to face me. “Thank you.”

The gratitude in her voice undoes me somehow. “Callie, I—”

A chime interrupts whatever foolish thing I might have said. The Committee’s morning check-in.

“We should…” She stands quickly, grabs a tunic and runs into the refresher to change. Calling out the partially shut door, she says, “They’ll want to verify we completed the rituals.”

“Right.” Rising more slowly, I force my body to respond to my commands. To rebuild the walls that seem to crumble more with each intimate moment. “Wouldn’t want to fail on our first day.”

The Committee’s daily representative materializes, their multifaceted eyes seem to miss nothing. My still-racing pulse. The way Callie and I can’t quite look at each other. The charged atmosphere between us.

“The morning rituals are complete,” they intone. “You may proceed with your day. Remember, evening meditation begins at sunset.”

They fade away, leaving us alone with everything we’re not saying. Everything we might have said if that chime hadn’t interrupted us.

“So,” Callie says brightly, clearly trying to dispel the tension, “I suppose we should eat something.”

“The Committee stocked the kitchen well,” I observe, grateful for the distraction. The tiny space forces us to maneuver carefully around each other as we explore the supplies. Every near-brush of contact feels charged after the intimacy of the morning rituals.

“Look at this,” she says, opening a cabinet. “Drassahbeans. Real ones, not the synthetic kind.” Her eyes light up at the discovery of the beverage we’ve all grown addicted to during our time in space. The Earth women love it, say it tastes like their coffee back on their home planet, only less bitter.

“I’ll make it,” I offer quickly, remembering her disastrous attempt on the ship that had Captain Beast spitting out what he claimed tasted like engine coolant. “You could…” My eyes scan the kitchen, looking for a safe task. “Handle the fruit?”

She laughs, the sound both surprising and welcome. “I’m not completely helpless in the kitchen anymore, you know. But fine—I’ll admit my limitations withdrassah.”

Working together in the small space creates a strange sort of awareness, different from the formal rituals, but somehow more challenging. We develop a careful dance of movement, always mindful of each other’s presence, never quite touching but constantly in each other’s orbit.

“We should review the evening meditation requirements,” she suggests as we settle at the small table with our breakfast. “Make sure we’re prepared.”

The Manual sits between us, a silent reminder of why we’re here—although we’re both conscious of how high the stakes are if we fail. Opening it reveals more intimate rituals we’ll have to navigate, more moments that will test the careful walls we’ve built over the lastannums.

Eighty-nine days left to convince everyone this is real. The problem is, I’m starting to wonder if we’re the ones who need convincing. And I am not sure which possibility terrifies me more—failing these trials or succeeding at them.

Chapter Eight

Callie

The Truth Mirror gleams in the afternoon light, its ornate frame seeming to mock us as we sit before it on the edge of our bed. According to the Manual, this weekly ritual requires us to maintain eye contact through the mirror while sharing progressively deeper truths. No looking away. No deflection. No lies.

“The first truth must relate to your current feelings. Partners take turns building on revelations.” The Manual’s words blur as my pulse hammers against my throat. Five years of careful avoidance, and now they want emotional honesty?

Aries shifts beside me, our hips touching. His reflection shows the tension in his jaw, the vein leaping on his cheek. “And we have to maintain eye contact with each other in the mirror the entire time?”

“Until the ritual is complete.” My fingers trace the Manual’s worn pages. “Three truths each, minimum.”

His gaze meets mine in the mirror, and my breath catches at the intensity there. Even in reflection, his amber eyes hold power.

“Ladies first?” he offers, the formality not quite hiding his discomfort.

Taking a deep breath, I search for a truth that won’t leave me too exposed. “I’m worried about failing these trials.” Simple. Safe. True.

“Not good enough,” a disembodied voice announces—the Truth Mirror itself, apparently. “Deeper truth required.”

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