Page 65 of Mile High Ruin

I consider calling a doctor on the ground before we land.

She reads the thought. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“You should be examined.”

“I will be if it gets worse.” She can tell I dislike that answer. “I promise.”

That is apparently enough to make me tolerate it.

She takes the pills with water, puts everything back inside the bag, then lies down with obvious reluctance. I pull the blanket higher over her.

Her eyes follow me. “You’re not staying in here, are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I don’t have an answer that sounds reasonable.

Because I want to.

Because I can’t bring myself to leave her alone.

Because the idea of her waking disoriented after what happened and finding nobody here bothers me in a way I don’t understand.

“I have work,” I say instead.

“There’s a desk outside.”

“There’s one here.”

She looks at the narrow desk on the opposite wall. “You are a terrible liar.”

“I rarely need to lie.”

“That wasn’t a denial.”

“No.”

Her mouth softens. She closes her eyes, and within minutes, her breathing changes. I sit at the small desk and pretend to read messages while watching her reflection in the darkened window.

Sleep gradually removes the tension from her face. The crease between her brows disappears first, then her hands loosen where they rest above the blanket. She looks younger asleep, though not fragile. Innocent is perhaps the wrong word.

Untouched is closer.

Not untouched physically—I have no interest in guessing about her past—but untouched by the ugliness that governs my world.

There is no calculation in her. That is a rare quality for people from my world. She spilled champagne on me because I irritated her, kissed me because she wanted to, and kicked a man hard enough to disable him because he tried to hurt her.

I understand all of those motives. They are refreshingly simple.

I stay until I’m certain she’s sleeping deeply.

Then I leave.