by Ann Aguirre
Page 45
Yeah, they proved there’s nothing spiritual, no such thing as a soul, but I’m not sure I can wholly put my faith in science anymore. Miracles are possible. I believe.
“I love you,” I whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek.
He catches my fingers and carries my palm to his lips, not a kiss so much as homage. I feel his tongue against my skin, tasting what I’ve been through as he comes into me, gentler this time, sharing instead of raiding.
“Once in a while,” he murmurs, low, “a man would like to rescue the woman he loves. You can’t keep saving me. ”
I shake my head, wrapping my arms about him. “You had your turn, remember?”
“Jax, when you never came back…” I feel him trembling. “I found your bag, and 245 showed us what happened to you. She captured it, so we knew you meant to die for us. Started falling then, but I never hit bottom, just—” His voice breaks, and he squeezes me with all his strength. “And then we saw the newsfeed…” He gives me everything he felt, rage and anguish, washing over me in waves that never ebb.
It hurts, but then, what doesn’t? Pain proves that we’re alive, gives us the ability to appreciate pleasure—everything in balance, everything in its time.
“You don’t need to be afraid of falling,” I murmur, raising my lips to his, whispering into his skin, “when there’s someone around to catch you. ”
I’m Sirantha Jax, former Farwan navigator, and that’s my job.