Page 121 of Seven Oars
She’d told herself countless times that she didn’t care. Yet it had stung then, and it stung now.
“They thought I didn’t belong. But,” her voice dipped,“there were some who thought I was exotic. One night, a man caught me on my way home. He was drunk.”
The Striker swiped sweat from his eyes.“What’d he do?”
“Nothing.” Rosamma pulled hard at the wire, prickling her finger.“I was lucky. My brother Ren happened to follow me. He zapped the man… in his man parts.”
Fincros didn’t pause his work, but Rosamma saw one of his eyebrows arch slightly.
“Ren got in trouble for that. It’s against the law,” she added quickly, and then thought she must’ve sounded rather silly to someone like him.
Zapping a man with an electric stunner was probably the mildest offense he’d ever committed.
She finished threading the wire and handed him the spool.
“Your brother and uncle sheltered you after that,” he stated, taking the spool from her.
“I did lead a more isolated life from that point on,” Rosamma admitted.
The incident had happened when she was seventeen. She was twenty-seven now. A lifetime had passed, spent in the cozy apartment she’d shared with Ren, reading books and daydreaming.
Fincros motioned for her to come closer.
Wary, Rosamma took two halting steps toward him, her feet so heavy it felt like wading through mud. The heat swathed her like a cocoon, inescapable. The air was dense and smelled of machine oil and his sweat and blood.
His breathing was heavy and strained, a sign of unmistakable distress.
He gave her the end of the wire.
“I need you to attach this wire to a spring inside the casing. There’s a small clip.”
Leaning in, Rosamma peered inside.
The move brought her so close to Fincros that she inhaled the air he exhaled. And he inhaled hers.
“Yes.” Her voice was scratchy.
“It’ll click when it’s inserted right.”
She pulled at the wire, and it slipped from her nervous fingers.
Her eyes flew to his face as her heart skipped a beat.
“I’m sorry.”
Calmly, he picked up the end and handed it to her again.
Their fingers touched. His six, large and scarred, with blue nails thick and sharp as claws. Her five, slim and white, a little bony, with pale pink nail beds. Her hand was pathetically fragile compared to his Rix brawn.
It was also narrow enough to slide easily into the opening, something he’d clearly noticed and counted on.
Suddenly, he hooked his sixth and smallest finger under one of Rosamma’s bracelets.
“It’s plymburne ore,” he said, naming one of the metals in the alloy.
“Yes. How did you know?”
He held onto the bracelet.
