Stolen by the Zandian - Renee Rose Page 0,31

and my future.

“The Kraa never talked about these storms.” I stare at the mayhem just feet in front of our faces. “Although they didn’t exactly chat with me about all of their adventures.”

Now that we’re safe—at least for the moment—my mind goes back to the sacks we discarded during our escape. “Do you think the flowers we gathered will survive the storm?”

Khrys is silent for a second. “The bags are strong and waterproof. But we need to go to the craft immediately, Kailani, when we can leave this cave and get to Zandia. We have limited time.”

I tense. “No. I need them,” I whisper, my whole body numb with disappointment. “I don’t understand why we can’t take one more solar cycle. Just one. What’s the huge rush?”

“We can come back with reinforcements later.” He doesn’t explain our tight timeframe to me.

“But later means in a few lunar cycles, Khrys.” My voice is taut with worry. “Their rainy season is upon us. If we don’t get flowers now…” I try not to think about suffering from headaches constantly.

I take a flower from my jacket and eat some of the pollen before stowing the bloom back in the fabric. “These few won’t last long.” I’m glad I took at least several to keep personally.

He sighs and mutters, “Veck. Another spectacular failure.”

“What?” I frown, twisting to look up at him.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head.

“It sounded like you said, another spectacular failure. Remember my ears?” I gesture to my head.

He gives a bitter chuckle. “It’s worlds apart from anything that concerns you. You don’t care about these things.”

I bite my lip. The words come before I can process what they mean: “But I do care. Please tell me.”

Khrys

Zandians don’t talk about things like emotions. But for some reason, I find myself opening up to Kailani.

I stare out into the sheets of rain as she breathes quietly in my arms, her body compact between my thighs. “Honor is everything to us on Zandia. Our pride in our work moves our planet forward, makes us successful, decides whether our planet lives or dies. Literally. We’ve been at war. In my lifetime, we lost our planet and then took it back again.”

“Yes?” Her small hand opens on my arm.

I nod. “I’ve made some mistakes recently. I displeased my king. Dishonored myself.” My voice is full of disgust. “Nothing that can’t be fixed, but commanders of my rank—we just don’t make mistakes. It’s a disgrace.”

She’s quiet. Then she simply asks, “Why?”

I blink a few times. “Well, I don’t know.” It’s actually not something I’ve ever considered. “Why? That’s…” I shake my head. “Interesting.”

“I think the reason a being fails is just as important as the failure itself.” Her voice is contemplative. “At least, in my experience.”

“Your experience?” I don’t mean to sound condescending, but I hear the question in my voice.

“You mean what can a slave know about choices?” Her hair is wet on my shoulder. “Even chattel have secret lives of our own. Decisions to make.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sure you do.”

“So think about what happened, what led to the failures. Trace it back, and that might give you answers on how to go forward.”

Veck, how can she be so wise?

But I frown because images rush back: My unit in battle a few solar cycles ago. The explosive device detonating. The death of my younger brother, the being who mattered most to me in the entire galaxy. The assurances—later, and unconvincing—that it wasn’t my fault. That I was an excellent warrior and that deaths happen in battle and that I needed to keep going. To keep training warriors.

It comes to me in dreams regularly, the face of my brother and the other warriors, the look in their eyes as they realize their fate. I usually awake with a guttural cry dying in my mouth, just like they died on that field.

“Khrys?” Her voice is soft, concerned.

“What?”

“Your whole body is locked up.”

I realize that I’m grabbing her tightly, my breathing somewhat labored. I relax my muscles. “I apologize.” I clear my throat. “Just a memory.”

“Must be a bad one.” Her voice is even.

“It was.” I wipe my brow.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why would I?”

“We humans find that talking can alleviate some of the misery.”

“Please don’t blame me for being skeptical.” My voice is haughty. “Since humans are not currently the reigning masters of the universe.”

I wince at my own words, but she doesn’t seem fazed. “Exactly. We need strategies to survive our current fate. Talking to each