Page 19 of Fractured Souls

He got the feeling her hard outer shell could shatter at any moment.

Shit.

The last thing Nythian wanted was to be minding a traumatized human female who had just been resurrected from the dead… who carried a second-stage Tharian around in her head. The alien parasite hadn’t fully revealed itself yet, and he didn’t want to be the one to have to deal with her when it did.

Why in Kaiin’s hells had the boss picked him for this job? Surely there was something better that he could use his destructive talents for? Even killing Xargek would be preferable to this.

“We’re here,” he said gruffly as the Qualum doors unraveled in response to his bio-sig. “Zharek!” he called, switching to his native Kordolian. “I know you’re in there. Get your nobleborn ass out here right now.”

A spark of irritation flared as he heard Zharek shuffling around in some back chamber. The feeling grew, turning into irrational anger. He imagined himself wrapping his hands around the bastard’s slender neck, slowly squeezing the life out of him…

“Tch…” Nythian suppressed his desire for blood-revenge, reminding himself that the medic was the only person who could help Alexis right now.

Sometimes, Nythian just felt like killing the bastard, but that didn’t mean he would really do anything.

When it came to Zharek al Sirian, the brilliant but insane medic who had once imprisoned them and tortured them with cruel medical experiments, he suspected all the First Division warriors felt like this from time to time.

And once, a long, long time ago, Nythian had almost done it.

The medic was extremely lucky to be alive.

“Nythian.” Speak of the cursed one himself. Zharek appeared at the entrance, a pair of protective black lenses slung around his neck. His hair was unbound and disheveled, and some blue substance was smudged on his cheek. “What do you want?”

Zharek’s left eye twitched. Nythian detected a hint of apprehension in him.

The creator was afraid of his own creation.

Serves you right.

He wouldn’t touch a hair on the bastard’s head, because Zharek and the boss had come to some sort of agreement. Tarak wanted the medic alive. Nythian didn’t understand half of it, other than that Zharek was brilliant and useful to their cause.

Given the grand old Kordolian tradition of revenge, Zharek had gotten off incredibly lightly.

Nythian swallowed his anger. He ushered Alexis forward. “She’s hurt. Fix it.”

She came hesitantly, studying her surroundings with a wary gaze. Now Nythian could appreciate that there was a certain hardness to her; she was cagey and guarded, and she definitely didn’t trust him… or Zharek.

He could hardly blame her. She hadn’t exactly had the softest landing into their world. Waking up in stasis after dying in space, having an alien symbiote forcefully invade her body and bring her back to life…

For his first few shifts, she’d been a delirious mess. The only people she would talk to were Abbey and Layla.

But she’d surprised him just now. Considering everything that had happened to her, she was holding it together pretty well.

“What have you done to yourself, Alexis?” Zharek stepped forward and took her damaged hand into his. His long fingers were stained with the same blue substance that was on his cheek. Gently, he probed the edge of Alexis’s hand.

“Ah!” She winced.

“Hm. You’ve punched something, no?”

“Something like that,” Alexis muttered. “You know the mechanism of injury just by looking at it, huh?” Her eyes narrowed. “You treated many humans?”

Zharek sighed. “I studied your species while on Earth. I know all there is to know about human orthopedic medicine. There’s only so many ways one can break a bone. That’s a classic boxer’s fracture. Come on. I’ll fix this up for you. It’ll only take a couple of sivs.”

To Nythian’s surprise, Alexis glanced at him, searching for something… reassurance, perhaps?

He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, remembering how it had felt to hold her trembling body. Goddess, she’d been as cold as the deep ice plains of the Vaal. Humans weren’t normally that cold, were they? Not that he minded—he was Kordolian; he liked the cold—but what if there was something seriously wrong with her? What if she was sick? She’d felt so small and fragile, like she could break if he held her any tighter.

“Do a full check, Zharek,” he ordered. “I don’t want any problems when I take her back.”

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