Containing Malice (Rebel Cyborgs #1) - Cynthia Sax Page 0,33

explosive had been removed first.

He had believed her. Her lips curled upward. That was one small step toward trust.

Her cyborg tended to her. Many moments passed before he seemed to be satisfied with her recovery. He then pressed his lips to her forehead and held her to him.

They didn’t speak. He stroked her hair. The fasteners had been long lost. The tendrils hung down her back. His petting was seductive, made her want to forget everything, focus on him.

But that wasn’t possible. “I should remove your explosive now.”

He remained in danger.

Her cyborg huffed, drew back from her. “According to the data you supplied, there are three tracking devices within us.” He grasped one of her forearms, rotating it.

“There are three tracking devices within you and Valor.” She tugged on her arm. He wouldn’t release her. “The Humanoid Alliance only inserts tracking devices into beings or things they value.” She couldn’t contain the bitterness in her tone. “That isn’t one female medic.”

He looked upward, met her gaze. “The Humanoid Alliance views me as a machine.” Resentment of that stance reflected in his eyes. “They value my ability to kill.” Her warrior brushed his rough fingertips over the delicate skin on her inner forearms, caressing her with a gentleness that made a mockery out of their enemy’s view of him. “They don’t value me.”

She valued him. “You removed my explosive.” She held out her right hand. “It’s my turn to remove yours.”

“We’ll breed first.” Malice stood, lifted her onto the sleeping support. The surface was warm from her body. “That will fully repair you.”

“No.” She closed her thighs. “I need to remove your explosive now.”

It was suddenly important to her that she do that as soon as possible. She couldn’t bear one more death, wouldn’t survive his demise. He meant too much to her.

Her dominant cyborg didn’t appreciate her response. He frowned at her.

She hadn’t the willpower for a long, drawn-out argument, for rounds of discussion. “I saw the explosive in my friend, in Medic Febris, detonate this planet rotation. It was…awful.”

She looked away from him. Memories of that moment flooded her brain. Unshed tears pricked her eyes. It had been horrific, would haunt her forever.

His death would be worse.

“I can’t see you die that way, Malice. I—” Emotion overcame her. Her voice broke.

Her cyborg cupped her chin, splaying his fingers around her healed wound, and turned her head, forcing her to meet his gaze. They looked at each other for several moments.

Nothing was said.

Yet the link between them tightened. She didn’t try to hide her feelings, her vulnerabilities. Not with him. And he gazed at her as though he saw into her soul.

“I haven’t survived this long to die like that.” He placed the deactivated laser scalpel on her palm, folded her fingers over it. “Remove the explosive, Medic.”

Malice reclined on the sleeping support, lifted his chin. His gaze remained on her.

She slipped to her feet, shook herself, donning her medic role. He was a patient. It should be a simple operation…one that had dire consequences for both of them if she made a mistake.

“This will hurt.” She activated the laser scalpel. “Don’t move.”

“You have cut me three thousand, six hundred and forty-one times, and I haven’t moved once.” He glared at her as though her instructions had been an insult to him and to his cyborg abilities.

She made the smallest incision possible. “I tried to convince the Humanoid Alliance to give me pain inhibitors to use when I experimented on you.” Blood coursed along his neck. The crimson was vivid against his gray skin. “I told them your form’s reaction to being hurt impacted results.” She traded the laser scalpel for grippers, probed the wound, searching for the explosive. “They didn’t believe that lie.”

Her cyborg huffed.

She removed the explosive. It was larger than the one that had been inserted in her. More power was required to kill big C Model cyborgs than small human females.

“I’ve extracted it.” She handed him the explosive.

He took it from her, examined it.

She retrieved the cleaning cloth, tidied her patient. The blood had already stopped flowing down his neck. The wound was closing. Skin, a paler shade of gray than the rest, formed over it.

“You’re healing much faster than you have in the past.” That eased some of her guilt.

“The injections worked.” He set the explosive aside, caught her wrists, drew her to him. “Lift your chin.”

She complied and he curled his fingers over her nape, lowered her to lip-level. His tongue rasped over the