KINSMAN’S OATH By Susan Krinard

Ronan desired her because she was the first human female to treat him with dignity and friendship, and because his needs had been so inadequately met. It was not her job to heal his wounds with her body or her soul.

Why, then, could she not rid her mind of his erotic dreaming? She forced herself to meet his eyes. The lust she expected was banked, but she could never be unaware of it again.

“Yes,” she said. “I believe you are here to rejoin humanity, and to help us.”

He closed his eyes. “My thanks.”

For what? For having pushed her way into his mind like a rapist, stealing what he held most private?

“Did you ever… sense my presence?”

. The answer was plain when he opened his eyes. “For a moment,” he admitted.

“It may be—” Poseidon, how could she find the nerve to raise his hopes? If he’d been a child when they crippled his telepathic abilities, he wouldn’t miss them. He might be far better off without them.

She gulped down the rest of the water and set down the glass. “It may be possible to restore something of your telepathy. With the right experts, of course. If… if you want to try.”

He did not answer but rose, leaving his glass untouched, and paced across the galley to the bulkhead, never quite turning his back to her.

“What is it like, to walk in another mind?”

How could she answer? She’d touched so few, and only two deep enough to brand her: Tyr, and now Ronan.

“It’s theoretically different for everyone. There are many kinds of gifts. You’ll be able to talk to other telepaths on Dharma. I’ll arrange it.”

“You don’t wish to go back.”

“To Dharma? My family is there—”

“But not your heart.”

He could have drawn such a conclusion from the clues she’d given him, but the observation was too acute for comfort. “Are you sure you aren’t still a telepath?” she asked lightly.

“I recognize your loneliness.”

“I don’t have time to be lonely.”

He faced her, hands folded at his back. “Is Kord your mate?”

Cynara’s boots sealed to the deck, nearly tripping her. “Kord is my weapons specialist, and my friend. You remember our discussion of human friendship.”

“You risk your life to save his, though you are his First.”

“You’re willing to risk your life for us—or is that only because you’ve grown up believing you have no worth to lose?”

She stopped, appalled at her own cruelty. What shocked her far more was the faint, self-mocking smile on Ronan’s face. He had learned to wield human expressions with remarkable skill in a very short time.

“I will risk my life for Cynara D’Accorso,” he said, taking a step toward her. “As you would risk much to save this ship. Your Pegasus is not like other human vessels. Why was it in shaauri space, outrunning a striker as if it were a ba’laik’iri’s plaything?”

His sudden change of topic left her mute. If she had not just probed his mind, she would have suspected his motives in asking. Janek would do more than suspect.

“Your curiosity is natural,” she said, “but it isn’t a subject I’m prepared to discuss.”

A shadow darkened his eyes. “You do not trust me as a friend. Do you need to enter my mind again?”

“It is not a matter of trust or friendship. You are still a stranger—”

“I do not wish to be.” He stood only a meter away, close enough for the heat of his body to penetrate her shipsuit. He lifted his hand, palm up. “Cynara—”

“Captain D’Accorso,” Lizbet’s voice announced over the intercom. “We are approaching Bifrost.”

“Acknowledged.” Cynara strode briskly for the door. Now was the time to decide—to trust or not to trust, to accept or reject Ronan as he had been rejected so many times before.

“It’s time to suit up,” she said. “Are you coming?”

He smiled, teeth and all.

Snow blew onto Ronan’s faceplate and was swept away again by the ferocious, icy winds of Bifrost. He had seen this storm’s like before, high in the mountains of Semakka. But then he had been alone with Sihvaaro, a student in the care of his elder. Here his companion was one he must protect with his life.

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