Page 37 of Star-Born Anomaly
“Your answer neither provides more information,” she went on, “nor makes sense. I can’t be Calypson. You came here for a reason. You must have more of an explanation than ‘you are Calypson.’” Her eyes searched his face. “Why don’t you actually tell me the truth?”
A sensation raced through him, surprising in its potency. She stared at him with those large brown eyes, and hewantedto tell her more, but these questions verged on the territory of the untouchable.
A crack of thunder filled their silence. He turned his head. The volume of the noise was less than that of its predecessors. Was the storm finally dying down? The following display of lightning dispelled that hope.
When the thunder ebbed, a sizzling sound echoed from the other side of the building. He jerked his line of sight toward it, changing his vision to see through to the kitchen.
Wynn’s eyes jumped to his. “Shit. The soup.” She darted out of the room as fast as he had seen her move, heading to the hallway.
He turned his head to follow her path, his gaze lingering on the empty doorway a moment before he followed her hasty exit.
“Not Calypson. Not Calypson.”
The repeated words led him toward the kitchen. He paused in the doorway and watched her turn off the heat beneath the pot. Moisture dotted the surface of the counter, and she didn’t look up as she wiped it up with a matching towel to the one that remained in her lab covered in blood. Her jerky movements continued beyond where the liquid had bubbled over the edge of the pot.
“Not Calypson. Not Calypson,” she repeated, the rhythm of her words matching the strokes of her hand as she wiped down the counter.
A small laugh left her, one high pitched and tinged with instability. A chaotic swirl followed, crashing over him. Along with it came the urge to leave, to spare himself from the emotions of this situation.
He stayed where he was, accepting the chaos into himself. He could not taste her thoughts, but he could experience this. The longer he spent in her presence, the easier it was to digest these feelings, and he realized they were more appealing than stroking another’s mind, even when volatile.
“I’m losing it.” She continued wiping vigorously. “I’m losing it,” she repeated.
Another small laugh escaped her, but this one she smothered with a sniff of her nose. Her hand paused, but her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. She stared at a section of the counter that did not seem to be significant, but held her rapt attention.
A shuddering breath shook her body, then she let go of the towel to cover her forearm with her hand—the same place where the three lines used to mark her skin.
He had thought she was not aware of his presence, but then she straightened and said, “I just…” She cleared her throat, then looked him inthe eye. “I need a moment alone.” Moisture welled in her eyes right before she stumbled past him and headed toward her sleeping quarters.
Another sniff resounded down the hallway. The sound cut off when the door closed behind her.
Need rippled through his body—a need to help. She demanded space, but he could not leave her in distress.
Chapter thirteen
Her quarters spun around her. Wynn stumbled, reached out, and caught her balance on the wall.
They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone.
The floor shifted beneath her feet. Sips of air passed her lips, but she couldn’t get a proper lungful. Head bent, she braced her hands on her knees.
It hadn’t really hit her at first. The disappearance of her scars had shocked and angered her, but now the truth settled deep inside her, forcefully shoved there along with the knowledge that she wasn’t fully human.
Both truths battled for dominance while the room spun. Her skin itched, feeling too tight on her body, like she needed to take it off and replaceit with another.
That spinning, out-of-control sensation had plagued her through her teenage years, culminating in the loss of herself when her parents had died.
Before Foster’s death, it had been so long since she’d given in to the urge to stop that spinning sensation with self-inflicted pain. A slice here, a cut there. It helped to calm her thoughts and focus her mind. She’d always healed the cuts after giving them to herself, removing all evidence of her weakness.
Until her parents died during a Tellusian raid on their long-distance transport.
In their honor, so she wouldn’t forget, she’d marked herself, one line for each of them, and allowed them to scar.
It hadn’t made the spinning sensation disappear altogether, but it had helped. Every time she’d felt her control slip, she would place her hand over the marks, and the world would calm. Eventually, she’d stopped needing to cut herself. Being accepted into the Science Academy had helped with that. So had landing her dream job at this outpost.
She’d only added the third line a few weeks ago. After Foster died.
Grief flooded her. The removal of her marks felt like Iax had erased the existence of her parents and friend.
