22. Sloane

Chapter 22

Sloane

I jerk awake and realize I'm leaning against one of the trees anchoring our lean-to.

Shit. How long was I out? I can't really tell, but I doubt it was more than a few minutes.

Was it mumbling from Dexari that woke me? He's thrashing a bit, his face contorted in distress. Hope that his fever broke surges through me, but it's quickly dashed. He's still hot. And now, he's delirious, too.

Most of what he mumbles sounds slurred and doesn't make sense. But I do catch a few disjointed words that he repeats over and over. "Spikes...mine...genetic match…fated...heir..."

"Shh, it's okay." I reach for the damp cloth again, using it to soothe him. "I'm here, Dex, I'm here. You're just having a fever dream. Everything's fine."

I keep talking to him, my voice low and calm. Gradually, his muttering and thrashing subsides. His breathing becomes more even. I press my hand to his forehead, and relief washes over me. His skin feels cooler; the fever finally broke.

"You're doing great, Dex. I think the worst is over."

As he settles into a more peaceful sleep, I replay his feverish words in my mind. They nag at me, like puzzle pieces that don't quite fit. Were they random words strung together by his fevered brain or something more? I shake my head. It doesn't matter. What matters is, he's getting better.

Still, those strange words linger in my mind.

Spikes. Mine. Genetic match. Fated. Heir.

Every so often, I force more water down his throat and use the cloth to bathe his skin. Now when I touch his forehead, it's cool and clammy instead of burning up. "You did it, big guy. You kicked the fever's ass."

What a relief.

Even though I'm exhausted, and I think Dexari is out of the woods, it's too dangerous out here for me to get more sleep. I stand up and purposely relax all my tense muscles. To get my blood pumping, I shake out my arms, roll my neck, do some side bends and some jumping jacks. When I feel less tense and more alert, I settle back against the tree to keep watch.

What a night this has been. I escaped from the palace, fought off alien wolves, won a standoff with Dexari's guards, tended to his injuries, and nursed his fever. No wonder I'm exhausted.

Don't forget about his feverish mumblings, Sloane.

As if I could forget. Even now the words repeat in my mind like some sort of mysterious mantra.

Spikes. Mine. Genetic match. Fated. Heir.

When I let my mind wander, a memory hits me.

I remember waking up from a drugged sleep on the slavers' ship and hearing them talk about universal breeders and orc spikes, and how many credits the orcs would pay for the humans. I knew what universal breeders meant and figured that's what the slavers had planned for me and the other human women caged in the ship's hold.

At the time, though, orc spikes didn't make sense to me. So, I dismissed the phrase as some sort of physical characteristic or description. Now I'm wondering if the phrase has greater significance.

What in the hell are orc spikes ? Part of me wants to wake Dexari up and ask him. The other part forces me to wait. He needs rest to fully recover.

It's daybreak before his breathing pattern changes again and his eye movement increases beneath his closed lids.

Slowly, he regains consciousness. His eyes open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as he takes in his surroundings. When he sees me, recognition dawns on his face.

Good. He's awake and aware. I move in close and press the back of my hand to his forehead. Cool and dry. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I have been attacked by a fanghound." His voice is weak, and his throat sounds scratchy.

"So, that's what those things are called." I help him sip some water. "A fitting name for alien wolves."

"How did you fend them off?"

I shrug a non-answer. My pocket knife is staying secret for now. "Fending off your guards was the real challenge. Why did you send them away when you were seriously wounded?"

"You had a dagger over my heart." He grins. "Well played, Sloane."

"I wouldn't have killed you," I confess.

"I know."

He knew ? "Then why didn't you call my bluff?"

Dexari's eyes meet mine. "Perhaps I wanted to see what would happen between us after my guards were gone."

I sidestep the between us bit. "You almost croaked, that's what happened."

When croaked translates, he chuckles, then winces slightly. "We had a nice conversation first."

"Glad you find it amusing that I spent the entire night freaked out, wondering whether you would live or die." There's no real bite to my words.

Dexari's expression turns serious. "I sent my guards away because I trusted you to care for me."

His words catch me off guard. "Why? I'm a stranger. An alien. Your prisoner . For all you know, I could be plotting to take you out and throw your kingdom into turmoil."

"Are you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I roll my eyes. "Of course not. But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Sloane?"

I hesitate, struggling to put my thoughts into words and failing. "The point is...you shouldn't trust me. It's not safe."

"Not safe for me, or for you?" he asks softly.

His words hit too close to home. I look away, unable to meet his questioning gaze. "Both, I guess."

"You saved my life when the fanghounds attacked." His hand reaches out, gently cupping my cheek. The touch sends a jolt through me, and I find myself leaning into it despite my better judgment. "That earns my trust, whether you want it or not."

This conversation is getting too personal for my comfort, so I pull away and change the subject. "Shortly before your fever broke, you said some things I didn't understand. If you trust me, then tell me something."

"Anything," he says, and I believe him.

"What are orc spikes?"