Naked to the waist, he sat on the edge of an examination table in the small dispensary as DeFore efficiently treated his injuries.
“Pretty clumsy to get stabbed by a Roamer,” she said. “I thought Mags were invincible…or is that only when you’re in armor?”
She probed the edges of the slash, and he winced as sharp pain cut into his side. “Superficial,” she declared. “Very lucky.”
“Lucky I didn’t get chilled or hurt worse?”
DeFore sniffed disdainfully. She used an aerosol can to spray on liquid bandage. A skinlike thin layer of film formed over the cut along his ribs and the puncture in his shoulder. The substance contained nutrients and antibiotics and would be absorbed by the body as the injuries healed.
As she worked, DeFore said, “Before you, Grant, Domi and Brigid came here, I’d go months without removing so much as a splinter from a finger.”
“Yeah, well,” replied Kane gruffly, “before I came here, I’d go years without so much as stubbing my toe. What’s your pointthat we’re accident prone?”
DeFore’s full lips pursed. A stocky, buxom woman with deep bronze skin, braided ash-blond hair and liq-uidy brown eyes, she was one of the first Cerberus exiles and accustomed to speaking her mind. “One of you, anyway. It might be appropriate to say you’re risk prone.”
Kane climbed off the examination table. “Is that a diagnosis?”
“In your case, it’s more of a prognosis. It’s past time we discussed this.”
“Discussed what?” He bit out the words. “Every day you’re alive is just another spin of the wheel. Winning is just breaking even. When your number is up, it’s up and you’re dead. End of discussion.”
“Very colorful metaphor, Kane,” DeFore said coldly. “But you’re not playing a lone hand, even if you think you are.”
“Get to the goddamn point, if there is one.”
She fixed an unblinking stare on his face. “Point oneyou’re displaying early symptoms of combat fatigue. It used to be called post-traumatic stress disorder. I already told Baptiste”
“You did what?” Kane broke in, his gray-blue eyes taking on an icy gleam.
Unruffled, DeFore went on. “I’d hoped she would talk to you, but obviously she didn’t consider it very important. I do. You’re emotionally exhausted and you’re overcompensating. Your powers of judgment are unreliable. Taking Salvo on your last mission proves that.”
Glaring at her from beneath a lowered brow, Kane snapped, “What happened on that mission had nothing to do with my decision to take Salvo. Events would have unfolded in the same way, whether he had come along or not.”
She shook her head. “That’s debatable. What isn’t is your decision to rely on a man who lived only to hate you. I understand that during your years as a Magistrate, you set great store by your instincts.”
“They saved my lifeand others’more than once.”
“Now they’re failing you. You’re not prescient, not invulnerable. You’re burning yourself out and putting the redoubt at risk.” She inhaled a deep breath. “That’s my diagnosis.”
“And your prognosis?”
“Stand down for a while. If you don’t, the odds are high you’ll get yourself or someone else chilled.”
“What if I don’t agree?” His voice took on a low, menacing note.
“I’ll enforce it if I have to, Kane. Believe it.”
Kane tried to lock gazes with the woman, to prove his implacable will, to show her he wasn’t intimidated. He couldn’t. Too easily he recalled his self-anger when Salvo turned the opportunity Kane had offered to redeem himself into a continuation of their blood feud.
He couldn’t deny he had brought Salvo on the op in hopes of salvaging a soul. Instead, the confidence in his instincts had been severely damaged. DeFore had put into words Kane’s desperate fear that the next time his instincts faltered, someone close to him would die.
He picked up his shirt, draped it around his neck and strode out of the dispensary, his pace suggesting both anger and preoccupied thought. He passed Grant and Domi without speaking to them. Grant glanced after him, then turned toward DeFore, an eyebrow raised questioningly.
She nodded. “I told him. I don’t know if I made a dent. Maybe you should talk to him.”