Page 149 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

“That is what this truth is.”

“Yes. It is.” She looks back at me. “But a knife can cut bread or throats. That does not make the blade meaningless. It makes responsibility terrifying.”

“You still want to save it.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

The honesty lands softly between us.

She wraps her arms around herself. “That is the part I hate. I always know what I want around secrets. I want them opened, scanned, translated, footnoted, and shoved under the noses of every smug bastard who said they didn’t exist. Now I’m standing there thinking maybe Rolaev is right enough to be dangerous, and I hate that almost as much as I hate the truth itself.”

“She murdered people.”

“I know.”

“She would murder more.”

“I know.”

“She cannot be allowed to decide what the galaxy is permitted to understand.”

“I know, Ghar.” Her voice breaks for the first time, and she presses both hands against her eyes for a moment before forcing them down. “That is why this is awful. Because the wrong person can make a true argument for monstrous reasons.”

The chamber shrinks around us, the leaning pillars holding their crooked vigil while our breathing fills the space. I want battle. I understand battle. Give me enemies, weapons, routes, wounds, and choices with immediate consequence. Do not give me a truth that makes my enemy understandable without making her forgivable.

I lean back against the pillar, feeling the cold seep through the armor at my shoulder. “I told dying men that their suffering served a design.”

Anita’s expression softens so painfully that I almost look away. “You were trying to comfort them.”

“I was lying.”

“You believed it.”

“That does not change the lie.”

“No,” she says. “It changes you.”

I laugh bitterly. “That is convenient.”

“It is true.”

“I wore a false universe under my skin and called it honor.”

“You acted with honor inside the only universe you knew.”

“And the universe did not care.”

“No.” Anita steps closer again. “The universe may not care. I am sorry, but it might not. The First Ones certainly did not seem to set this whole mess up with a moral instruction manual and a customer support line.”

Despite myself, my mouth moves slightly. “Customer support line?”

“I am angry. Let me have my phrasing.”

The almost-smile dies quickly, but she sees it. Some of the fear leaves her shoulders.

She reaches for my hand, then hesitates. The hesitation hurts worse than touch. She is afraid I will reject her now that every sacred explanation has turned poisonous.

I hold out my hand first.