No Such Thing (7 page)

"Yeah, sure," he said in a faint voice, studying her bent head. He was confused and dismayed by her situation and his own responses. She was so
powerful, but she looked so fragile that it made him ache all over. That ache was just a little terrifying.

She peeked up at him through her lashes, a hesitant curl to her mouth. "Yes?"

That look nearly killed him. He swallowed hard to push his heart back down his throat and clutched the scanner in both hands until his knuckles turned
white. "Yes, please," he responded carefully, keeping his voice steady with an effort.

Her mouth curled into a full-fledged smile that did stop his heart for just a second, before it thundered into life again. "And you’re still
calling me Ryelle?"

"I am. Ryelle." Her name was sweet on his tongue and it warmed him enough to tug an answering smile from him.

Her smile faded, though, and she gave him a puzzled look as she pressed the hairnet to her chest. Then she glanced down swiftly as if surprised to find the
thing in her hands. "Do you have somewhere I can put this?" she asked in an absent tone.

He moved to the storage unit, replacing the scanner and stepping well out of her way so she could place the net inside. A thought struck him as he watched
her and he retrieved a pair of communicators when she moved back. Holding one out to her, he explained, "It’s really loud on deck. It’ll
be easier to talk if we have these. Special made to work inside."

She nodded and reached for the little earpiece on his palm. Her fingers brushed his skin and he jumped at the shock of sensation that ran up his arm. She
gave him an inquiring look as she placed the communicator in her ear, but he just rubbed his palm on his pants and turned toward the main engine room door.

"This way," he muttered and opened the door, barely aware of the familiar rush of sound. They stepped through together, but a moment later he
realized that she was no longer at his side. Turning, he caught her rapt expression and grinned.

"Oh, it’s beautiful," she said, eyes fixed on the proton streams. Or he thought that’s what she said. Hastily, he tucked the
communicator into his ear. "They never said it would be so beautiful."

He felt his chest puff out with what was probably stupid pride, but he couldn’t help it. These engines were the joy of his life and her reaction
suited him right down to his toes. "Want a closer look?"

She flashed him that smile again, the one that made him forget his name, before she moved forward. He followed, watching her instead of the streams. The
golden light rippled across her skin like a sun-kiss and touched her hair with deep echoes of red. He was so engrossed in the patterns of light moving
across her that he forgot to warn her about the streams. She reached for a tube, only to jerk her hand back with a squeak of surprise.

"Oh, sorry, I meant to warn you. They give off a jolt, kind of like…" Declan fell silent, at a loss as to how to finish that sentence.
Kind of like when you touch me or even come close to me.
But saying so just didn’t seem polite. Or very bright.

"But it didn’t hurt. I was just startled. May I touch it again?"

He fought a smile, wondering what she’d do if he asked the same thing of her. "Sure, go ahead. It’s not dangerous."

She reached, a faint, anticipatory wince on her face until her fingers touched the clear tube. Then her expression grew rapt again as she moved her fingers
slowly along the contour. "This is amazing. I can feel the tingle all the way up my arm and the light is extraordinary. How does it work?"

It was hard to keep his mind on the explanation while watching her. Those gently moving fingers and parted lips were particularly
train-of-thought-destroying. But he did his best. It helped when she stopped caressing the tube and turned her attention to the vast cavern below them, as
he described the function of the ship’s propulsion systems.

"Incredible," she murmured. "And you go down there?"

"All the time. Do you want to go?"

She flashed him a quick glance then stared down into the cavern with a thoughtful look. "Yes," she said. "I think I do."

With a smothered grin, he ushered her over to the grav-trolley. "We use this to cruise around inside the engine, reach tight places. It’s got
anti-grav, but it’s a little bucky. And there’s a step down, be careful—" As he noticed that there was a drop from the deck to the
trolley, he reached for her arm to help her down, then realized what he was doing and pulled away as if burned. "I’m sorry!"

She looked up at him with a faint smile, still moving toward the trolley. "It’s all right. You were just being courteous.
That’s—oh!" At the step, she lost her balance.

With the speed of panic, he lunged forward and caught her arms. "Oh, shit! Are you okay? I can’t believe I almost let you do a
header…" His voice trailed away as he realized that she was staring at his hands on her arms. Once he stopped talking, sensation broke through
his adrenaline rush, spiraling up his arms and into his chest like a siren song. He let her go abruptly then jerked his hands back up, afraid that
he’d let her go too fast. "Sorry! Sorry…"

"I’m fine," she murmured. "Guess I should have let you help me down." But she didn’t look fine. There was such a
mournful expression on her face that Declan wanted to throw himself over the edge of the cavern for causing it.

"What is it?" he asked anxiously. "Did I hurt you?" She had felt as fragile as she looked, arms small, flesh soft, bones light
under his grip.

"No." She met his gaze then gave him a pained smile. "I’m fine, really. Let’s go." Bracing a hand on the rail of the
trolley, she lifted her skirt, took a careful step down, and moved out of his way.

He stepped down with the grace of long practice and moved to the controls, shooting her a troubled glance. Her delicate features were tight with some
emotion that he couldn’t name. "I’m sorry," he said again.

She sighed as they began to drift, looking out over the engines with such a melancholy expression that his chest hurt. "It’s not you. I just
haven’t been touched in a long time." Her tone was abrupt and nearly kept him from replying.

But the pain in his chest wouldn’t go away, so he ventured, "Why not?" He hesitated then asked the really stupid question,
"Don’t telenetics touch each other?" He braced himself for a caustic reply, but she didn’t answer for several long moments.

"They don’t touch me."

There was such raw grief in those words that he lurched toward her almost without volition. "Ryelle," he whispered, fighting a desperate battle
to not wrap his arms around her. "Why not?"

She took a shuddering breath, blinking fiercely. "Is…is there a blind spot close by? I don’t want—I need privacy," she said
in a shaky voice.

Clenching his hands into fists, he moved stiffly to the controls and steered the trolley to the cavern’s bottom. He ushered her to an alcove recessed
in the wall that held tools, spare parts, and a long bench courtesy of Bags and his need to nap. "This is a blind spot," he said through his
distress. "Nobody will see you here."

She gave him a jerky nod without looking at him and lowered herself gingerly onto the bench. Staring at her bent head for a moment, he swallowed hard and
sat beside her, trapping his fists under his arms so he wouldn’t be tempted to touch her. The temptation grew almost unbearable when he saw tears
leaking out from under those fantastic lashes. He swore viciously under his breath and bolted to his feet, pacing in front of the bench.

"Ryelle," he said in a hoarse voice, "tell me what’s wrong. I can’t—I need to know. Did I do something? Maybe say
something wrong?"

She shook her head, wiping at her cheeks with shaking fingers. "No," she whispered. "It’s not you." Taking a deep breath, she
raised her head and gazed out at the mix of shadow and golden light under the engines with blind, liquid eyes. "The last person to touch me like that
was my mother. That was five years ago. She’s in a coma."

"Oh, god," Declan groaned, dropping to the bench beside her again.

"She’s everything—she’s all I—" She bent her head again, raising a trembling hand to her forehead.

Declan tightened his arms down on his fists until he could feel bone grind against bone, knuckle against rib. He had a flash of his own mother, the last
time he’d seen her, stern face creased with a wide smile, reflecting his own excitement. But her blue eyes had glistened with tears of pride and
grief. He remembered her last hug, uncharacteristically tight and lingering, and felt a painful lump lodge in his throat. She was his only family, his best
friend, and it was harder than he’d realized it would be, being away from her for so long. It was hard, even though he had regular contact with her
and knew they’d see each other again. He couldn’t imagine what Ryelle was going through.

"What happened to her?" he whispered.

She was silent for a moment, hand hiding her features. Then she sighed, dropping her hand to stare out at the engines with the bleakest expression
he’d ever seen. "They said…she had a reaction to a medication."

The way she said that seemed off, but something told him not to pursue it. "Is there a chance—? Is the coma permanent?"

"They say she still has brain function. They don’t seem to know why she doesn’t wake up." This triggered a fresh wave of grief. Her
expression twisted for a second, her eyes sliding closed while tears slipped from under her lashes.

Declan wracked his brain for something to say or something he could do that would help. But he couldn’t get past the burning need to touch her, to
comfort her in some way, any way. Finally, with a sigh and a grimace for his own weakness, he cleared his throat. "I’m really sorry about your
mom. And I’m sorry I grabbed you and started all this. Do you—not like to be touched? Because I’d be honored to hold your hand."

Then he held his breath. Ryelle stiffened, her eyes opening slowly. She stared at him with a strange expression for a long, agonizing moment until his
lungs began to ache.

"You…want to hold my hand?"

He nodded quickly, not trusting his voice. His heart was pounding a furious rhythm in his chest at his own audacity. You didn’t touch a telenetic.
But maybe you could, if they agreed to it…maybe if they wanted you to?

"Why?" she asked in such a low whisper that the communicator didn’t register it.

Declan saw the shape of the word on her lips, though, and flinched. He was such an idiot. Why would she want to hold hands with him of all people? He
ducked his head, staring at the grate between his feet while words spilled out of his mouth in a mortified babble. "Sorry, Mem Soliere, I don’t
mean harm or offense. I just wanted to help, you know, I don’t know how you can stand it, with your mom how she is and it makes no sense that nobody
will touch you. You’re amazing, and I just—" He snapped his teeth shut on the flow of words, a horrified flush rising from his throat to
his face. Had he really been about to confess that he just couldn’t help wanting to touch something so beautiful?

"I’m dangerous," she responded in a peculiar tone.

Declan wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything, but he nodded without looking at her. "Yes, Mem, you’re a telenetic, and I had no
right to ask. I’m sorry."

"That’s why no one will touch me. I’m too dangerous."

Surprised out of his mortification, he looked up at her. She was watching him with a light frown, body twisted on the bench so she faced him. Her mouth was
tight.

"Too dangerous? But the Institute wouldn’t send anybody out who’d hurt people. You didn’t hurt me when I grabbed you."

"I’m the strongest telenetic they’ve ever seen. They don’t know if I can control it, and they are…concerned about my
conduct."

Declan stared at her, suddenly remembering her silver hair piece and what she’d said it was used for—the Institute didn’t trust her,
watching and listening to everything she did. In a flash of intuition, he figured out why she needed the blind spots, above and beyond privacy from the
crew. She expected the Institute to spy on her, to piggyback on the
Odyssey
’s com net to track her every move. He swallowed hard, horrified
and deeply offended by the lengths they were willing to go to contain their telenetic. It wasn’t just
her
privacy they invaded either. A
surge of fury tightened his jaw to stone and turned the muscles of his arms to rock across his chest.

"So they’re afraid of you," he said through stiff lips, barely able to unclench his teeth enough to speak.

She shrugged and glanced away, but the tight line of her mouth and strain around her eyes belied the casual gesture.

"Well, I’m not," he said flatly, prying his arms loose and holding out his hand to her, palm up.

She stared at it then lifted her gaze, those fathomless dark eyes searching his face with unnerving intensity. His anger drained away under that regard,
recalling his earlier anxiety with a vengeance. He didn’t know what she saw in his eyes or expression, but after a moment she glanced back down at
his hand with a faint crease of her forehead. Slowly she raised her own hand, hesitated for one heart-pounding moment, then laid her cool fingers across
his.

Ryelle wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Having touched almost no one but her mother her entire life, then having had only the most
fleeting human contact in the last few years, she should have had very few preconceived notions of Declan’s touch. But she had not expected the heat
and gentle strength of his fingers, his large hand engulfing her small one in a careful clasp.

She heard Declan inhale sharply, but she didn’t look up at him, fascinated by the sensation of warmth soaking from his flesh into hers and the
pressure of his fingers conveying controlled power as they held her. He had workman’s hands—for all their long-fingered, economic grace, they
were rough and calloused, with stains around his short fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. The contrast against her smooth, soft skin was
startling and absorbing, but what really held her attention was the strength she could feel in his grasp as his fingers tightened a fraction against hers.