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EIGHT
ADDIE
I’m all too keenly aware of the way my entire body relaxes the second AX2 steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“You’re getting cold,” he rumbles, eyebrows locking in a frown as he looks me over. “Put some clothes on.”
It’s about the last thing I expect him to say, and I have to remind myself that he’s not in control of the instinctual urge to keep me warm and safe. Nevertheless, I narrow my eyes in warning. “Command me one more time, AX2. I dare you.”
He huffs a breath, and there’s no mistaking the utter lack of concern as he cocks an eyebrow at me.
I grit my teeth, my pride flaring awake as I briefly consider putting him in his place with a pain receptor engagement command. But there would be no scientific value in doing so—it would simply be to hurt him. For following instincts he can’t help.
Besides, my nerves are far too frayed for a battle of wills right now.
“My mother brought clothes for you. Get dressed.” I echo his command and point to the chair where my father’s old clothes are neatly piled.
He obeys.
Something eases in my chest as I watch him walk to the chair. Reaffirming that he will follow my orders, that I am in control no matter what primitive instincts have been engaged by our mating, feels… safe. A sensation swiftly drowned out by hot embarrassment when AX2, still with his back to me, unfastens his towel, and I’m suddenly staring at his perfect, muscular backside.
Damn it all to hell!I swivel around, keenly aware that he’ll feel my mortification, and stalk back to the closet. In my lab, he was often undressed, and apart from the few times his body reactedunfortunatelyto my examinations, I never considered him a man. Something that seems impossible now.
With a force of will, I push away the memory of his warm hands stroking up along my thigh and focus on the clothes in my childhood closet.
When I was a teenager, my mother and I fought bitterly over my clothes. I wanted to dress like the adult I dreamt of becoming—business suits; crisp, button-up shirts; and a neutral color palate. She wanted to keep me as a child for as long as she could.
Eventually my father stepped in to force a compromise. The result was a wardrobe that looked like it belonged to a girl with split personalities. I took the pantsuits and blazers with me when I eventually moved out, leaving behind flowing dresses and frilly blouses.
I sigh as I rummage through the hangers. Not a black pair of slacks in sight.
Eventually I settle on a pleated cream blouse with a frilly collar and pearl buttons, then pick out a floral A-line skirt in mercifully muted tones that hits just below my knees, paired with wooly stockings. Unfortunately, the only shoes available that aren’t some shade of pink are a pair of black heels. I despise heels.
I almost pick the pink ballet flats with obnoxious bows adorning the toes, but the thought of sitting through an official debriefing wearing shoes that look like they belong to a doll makes me grab the black heels with gritted teeth. The moment I slip them on, my toes protest.
Just one more reason to look forward to being done with today.
I clip-clop over to the dressing table and find my old hair dryer, then run a brush through my tresses and pull them into a tight bun. At least I’ll look like I belong at the Pentagon from the neck up.
Finally I turn back around and find AX2 waiting for me by the door, hands clasped behind his back. He’s fully dressed now, but seeing him in my father’s old clothes makes me blink. Apart from his posture and army boots, he looks nothing like the soldier I’m used to. He looks… like a man who’s about to spend the weekend in a woodland cabin.
A flash of Dad wearing that shirt flickers through my brain, from one of the few times we all went to the mountains when I was still a child. I remember how it smelled like bonfire and crisp air when I curled up between him and Mom to listen to a story about a bunny going on an adventure.
I force my mind back to the present and frown at how tightly the fabric clings to AX2’s form. The white tank top shows off every muscle in his torso, and I don’t dare look lower to check how the jeans fit him. “Can you even move freely in that?”
“Enough.”
I guess it’ll have to do. He’s been wearing his uniform for days—no one thought to bring him a change of clothes while he sat with me in the hospital. I don’t know why that bothers me.
* * *
The driveto the Pentagon is silent. My father sits beside me in the backseat, leaving AX2 to act as our chauffeur. My father, the general, is used to such arrangements, but it makes me slightly uncomfortable. That’s ridiculous, of course; there’s no reason to feel anything but slight amusement that an AX model worth millions of dollars is being used as a chauffeur. What an excellent allocation of taxpayers’ money.
I reach up to rub at the scar on my neck. The freshly mended flesh itches underneath the gauze, and I know I should have left the covering off to let the fresh, pink skin breathe.
I catch AX2’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Checking up on me. He’s caught the flicker of darkness in my gut through our bond before I even register its presence myself.
I let my hand fall from my neck and take a slow, deep breath. I had the option of falling apart at the hospital. Of letting medical professionals soothe and coddle me while I gave in to the despair clawing at my mind. I chose not to, and I need to stick by that if I want any semblance of my old life back.
