Chapter 11: Dax

Dax Harrow had built his old training ring inside a gutted cargo hangar.

He sat on the edge of it with blood on his ribs.

Maxine found him there at midnight, after the troopers' sleds had been dragged away and the yard had gone quiet.

She carried a bowl of lentil stew and a roll of bandage.

"I'm fine," Dax said, before she'd said anything.

"You're bleeding on the floor."

"That's a net burn."

"It's a cracked rib. Isak said so." She sat down beside him on the ring's rim.

"He told me to make you eat and sit still."

"I don't take orders from leopards."

"Dax."

"Fine."

He took the bowl.

He ate fast and fierce.

When he was done he put the bowl down and stared at his hands.

"I'm the loudest man alive," he said, gruffly. "And I can't say a damn thing right."

She waited.

"Four years I've been telling myself I was a monster."

"It was easier than finding out someone did it to us." He kept his eyes on the floor.

"I nearly tore Rhys's arm off. I'd have done the same to you."

"You didn't."

"Because of a bowl of soup."

"Because you chose to stop." She put her hand over his scarred one.

"You looked up, Dax. I saw you. You looked up and found his face."

His throat worked.

He turned his hand over and laced his fingers through hers, large and rough, and held on.

"I've never been good at this," he said. "Being gentle."

"Who asked for gentle?"

His head came up.

Gold eyes, fierce, startled, and very close.

"Maxine."

"You called me your wife in front of a camera."

She leaned in until their breath mingled.

"I'd like to know whether you meant it."

"I meant it. I'm thirty, I'm not in the Fever, and there's no red in my eyes."

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