Forged (Star Breed #10) - Elin Wyn Page 0,51

where Thalcorr was desperately trying to staunch the blood that welled from Hakon’s chest.

I couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away.

Just watch as the life left him.

“Put them in the brig for now. If the big one is meat, shove it through an airlock.” Ran smiled with all the warmth of a shark. “They might be useful later. I do like to keep my options open.”

Hakon

“Stay still, you idiot.”

The words rolled through my brain, meaningless, echoing.

“I don’t even know why you’re not dead yet.”

I knew that voice. But it wasn’t the voice I wanted to hear.

Slowly, I fought my way back to consciousness.

There was something important I had to do, even if I couldn’t remember it right now.

“Stay down. Dammit, you’ve started bleeding again.”

I opened my eyes, to find Thalcorr bending over me, his face covered in blood.

The pain radiating through my chest cleared up that question.

My blood.

“What’s going on?” I grunted.

Or at least, I tried to, but apparently enough of my meaning got through.

“Quick summary, you’ve been shot, we’ve been imprisoned, and your girlfriend has been dragged off somewhere.”

My girlfriend.

I struggled to sit up, but Thalcorr easily pushed me back down.

That shouldn’t be possible.

“Where is Yasmin?” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “And I am running out of supplies for bandages to continue trying to keep you alive. I would appreciate it if you’d stay still before I’m completely naked.”

“I’d like to avoid that,” I said quickly.

For the first time since we’d met, Thalcorr smiled at me.

An actual real smile.

I glanced down, saw a professionally neat bandage wrapping my chest and shoulder.

The only surprise was that it was made out of strips of Thalcorr’s diplomatic robes.

“When did you learn to do that?” I asked. “Doesn’t seem like something they’d teach along with how to pour the tea.”

Thalcorr snorted. “I wasn’t born into the diplomatic corps,” he explained as he folded another pad and pressed it lightly over the blaster wound. “I spent half my life as a medic until I realized it would be easier to heal people if I could stop all of those stupid skirmishes from breaking out in the first place.”

“Even your voice is different. Where are you from originally?” The words were more difficult now, my brain feeling like it was wrapped up too, muffled.

“Sekjun 5,” he admitted. “Not quite the Fringe, but close enough. But the only way to get ahead in the diplomatic corps is to out-snoot the snoots.”

“Huh,” I muttered. “Glad I didn’t throw you out the airlock after all.”

“So am I,” he answered.

I tried to shift, but the lancing pain put a quick end to that. “Since you’ve been awake longer than I have, what do you think is going on here?”

“Assuming that the lovely Yasmin didn’t lead us into a deliberate trap, I would say that she’s terribly misunderstood the nature of her family’s corporation.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Or perhaps, just the nature of her family.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” I said.

Doubt wove itself through my thoughts.

Would she?

She’d been willing to do a lot of things for the good of her corp. For the good of her family.

But I’d seen her eyes when I was shot, heard her scream.

No. She hadn’t known that would happen.

And there was something else, something important that I needed to remember.

“However, you should sleep now,” Thalcorr said, his reassuring hand patting my good shoulder. “You’re not going to be able to do anything to help her if you’re still bleeding all over the floor.” He checked the folded pad, eyes narrowed. “Considering you’re not dead, I have to assume that your healing powers are quite amplified.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” I started to explain Doc’s tweaks, but the darkness reclaimed me before I made it through the first sentence.

A slight shake to my shoulder pulled me back up from the depths.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Thalcorr’s professional voice was firmly back in place. “I’m certain that a longer period of rest would do you good, but I believe we’re about to have company.”

I pushed myself to sit upright, the lash of pain that tore through my chest a reminder to not do that again so quickly for a while.

But the old man was right. I took a glance at the room I’d been unable to focus on before.

Starkly empty. Apparently Station 112 hadn’t been designed with a formal brig.

Maybe they’d never had the need.

So Denau had repurposed an old storage room.

Everything that might’ve been useful had been taken out.

And anything more, I’d have to examine later, because the