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“I should have hidden pain inhibitors inside my boots instead of daggers.” She pressed her forehead against his. “That would have been more useful.”
“There’s a medic pack on the ship.” He laved the length of his little human’s nose with the flat of his tongue, coating that damage with his nanocybotics. That should ease her hurt and hasten her repair. “The daggers were utilized.”
“They were utilized.” She twisted her lush lips. “But that fuckin’ Invader still messed up the Plan.”
“We modified the Plan, and it?—”
A planet-deep groan severed his words. A series of cracks shot out like gunfire during a battle.
Drift covered his female once more, pressing her face into his chest.
“I love you, my male.” Her voice was muffled, yet he heard and reveled in her sharing.
A boom nearly downed his auditory system. And an intense gust of wind and sand flowed over him. His pain amplified. He clenched his jaw and waited.
The manufactured squall dissipated.
His damage from the second impact was minor.
He elevated his form sufficiently, allowing his female to breathe freely.
“What. Was. That?” She huffed.
He had his projections. “It was a sign we should go.” He pushed himself to his half-booted feet, ignoring the hurt that movement caused him.
“My Drift?” His female stared up at him. Her distress was palpable.
He must look horrific. “I’ll repair.” He grasped her arms, careful not to touch her ravaged hands, and lifted her to her fully booted feet.
Her thigh-high footwear had protected her knees and lower legs.
“There’s nothing left of the back of you.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I can see your frame. The agony you must be feeling?—”
The emotional damage contained in her tone threatened to flatten Drift a third time.
His female wasn’t disgusted by his appearance.
His hurt was causing her emotional damage.
His world spun around him.
And those pain suppressors she regretted not bringing?
He was the being she wanted to give them to.
His fragile little human had been battered and scraped by the blast yet all her concern was directed toward him, a cyborg manufactured for war.
He was her focus.
As she was his. Always.
“I’ll repair.” Drift repeated that truth. His voice was gruff. “I’ll carry you.”
“We’ll take the mounted transport.” His female stepped around his form. “That would—Fates.”
She gaped at whatever her visual system had detected.
He turned.
