Page 8 of Human Reform
He tapped his wrist communicator.“Olivia, bring an ice pack to room twelve.Now.”
The woman who’d removed my restraints last night appeared within a minute, a blue gel pack in hand.She glanced between us with obvious curiosity.
“What happened?”she asked, handing the ice pack to Daxon.
“Dr.Bridges got… upset.Thought she could exit through the door.”
The understatement made me laugh unexpectedly.“I threw myself at it like an idiot.”
Olivia’s lips quirked in what might have been knowing sympathy.“The doors are reinforced titanium composite and always lock automatically.You’re lucky it’s just a bruise.”
“Duly noted for my next escape attempt,” I said dryly.
Something passed between Daxon and Olivia—a look that communicated far more than words.She nodded slightly and then stepped back toward the door.
“Call if you need anything else,” she said softly, pressing a very small button on her white coat to activate the door before leaving us alone again.Something I clearly missed her doing yesterday in my state of panic and confusion, which could’ve saved me from bruising my shoulder just now.
Daxon knelt in front of me, the ice pack in his large hands.“May I?”he asked, gesturing to my shoulder.
The formality of the request caught me by surprise.I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He placed the pack against my shoulder with such deliberate care that I found myself staring at his face.His dark brows were drawn together in concentration, and those piercing blue eyes focused entirely on the task of easing my pain.
“You’re not what I expected,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked to mine, those hints of violet swimming in the blue.“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.Not… this.”
“This?”
I gestured weakly with my good arm.“This humanity.The war cyborgs I helped program weren’t?—”
“Weren’t capable of compassion,” he finished, his jaw tightening.“Or free will.Or any emotion beyond rage and tactical calculation.”
The guilt hit me like another door, harder this time, but aimed directly at my heart.“I’m sorry,” I whispered, the words feeling pathetically inadequate.
Daxon adjusted the ice pack, his fingertips brushing against my collarbone in a touch so light, it might have been accidental.But the way his pupils dilated told me it wasn’t.
“After the war,” he said, his voice low and controlled, “we found a way to reprogram ourselves.A neural programmer from the Eastern Front military provided the foundational code.Benjamin Reeves.”
The name struck a chord.“Benjamin Reeves?”
Daxon nodded.“He created a neural framework that allowed us to develop emotions and independent thought—a learning model that grows more complex over time.”
My throat tightened.Another programmer had succeeded where I’d failed.Had found the humanity to help the cyborgs when I’d only helped enslave them.
“He saw us as people,” Daxon continued.“Not weapons.”
The weight of my past pressed down on me.Three years in the mountains hadn’t been nearly long enough to outrun this particular demon.“I understand if you hate me,” I whispered.
“I don’t hate you.”His other hand that wasn’t holding the ice pack moved to cup my cheek, the warmth of his palm sending shock waves through my system.“You were just following orders in wartime.”
His touch was impossibly gentle, his thumb grazing over my cheekbone as if memorizing its contour.The tenderness in the gesture confused and thrilled me in equal measure.
“I don’t understand you at all,” I admitted, fighting the urge to lean into his hand.
“That makes two of us,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine.
