He nodded.
She came to her feet and went to a closet across the room from him. Against his normal code to enter no one's threshold without an invitation, Rachol crossed the room.
Kiara handed him a pile of blankets and two pillows. "Nykyrian never asked for any,"
she whispered, her voice laced with more tears and agony than he could stand.
"Yeah, well, he doesn't ask for much, period, besides he doesn't usually sleep with covers."
Glumly, she nodded her head.
Rachol cursed under his breath. "Don't look at me with those doleful eyes. Geez, you remind m e of a condemned man in court."
Tears fell down her cheeks. Rachol groaned and dropped the blankets. "C'mon," he said, leading her back to her bed. "Tell me what happened."
She gave him a startled, hurt look.
Rachol felt like a louse as he sat down on the mattress. Hell, he hadn't done anything wrong, why should he feel awful? "Kip wanted me to tell you he was sorry for whatever he said. Knowing him, it was probably something brutal, but don't take it to your soul.
When he's wounded, he's as snappish as a wild lorina."
Kiara's wide amber eyes watched him. Tears sparkled on her dark lashes. "What happened tonight?" she asked in a baleful whisper. "How did he get hurt?"
His anger built as he remembered their mission. Coming to his feet, Rachol paced beside her bed. "We went to meet with an informant. Unfortunately, some of Bredeh's dogs beat us to him. By the time we got there, the bastards had taken the guy's kid as hostage."
Needing to vent some of his anger, he slammed his fist into the wall. Pain erupted through his knuckles, numbing his hand, but it didn't help ease the ache in his conscience.
"Rachol?"
He couldn't mistake the fear in Kiara's voice as she stared at him with widened eyes.
"Sorry," he said in a half humble apology. "I just get so damned angry about life and how it plays that ..." His voice trailed off. He sighed wearily. "They killed the kid's dad right in front of him."
"Rachol, I'm sorry." Kiara left the bed and headed for him.
Rachol backed away and shook his head. "Don't touch me," he said, sidestepping her.
She held her hand to her mouth and appeared to be fighting off another round of tears.
"That's what Nykyrian said."
He nodded in understanding. "We're not really ogres," Rachol said, wondering why he bothered to explain anything to her.
She returned to her bed and sat cross-legged. Her large, pain-filled amber eyes stared at him. "You just don't like to be touched."
"Exactly."
Her sobs racked her body and wrenched his soul. "Hey now, don't do that," he said, raking his hand through his hair. "Have pity on me, I can't stand a weeping female."
She clutched her pillow to her stomach and cried as if her heart were breaking. "But why, why can't I touch him, why can't I touch you?"
Rachol stood for a m oment, trying to think of someway to make her understand. His gaze drifted to the shelf beside the door and the griata statuettes that lined it. Moving to them, he took one off the shelf.
"Here," he said, handing it to her. "Tell me what you see."
She looked at him as if he were crazed. "It's just one of my— "
"No, I mean really look at it."
He watched her graceful fingers play across the hard planes of the little boy standing beside his dog.
"When you hold it," he explained, "It's sharp, cold, and we both know griata is one of the hardest substances in existence."
She nodded, a tiny smile playing across her lips as she realized his point. "It's also the most brittle. One wrong hit on the wrong side and it crumbles into pieces."
Rachol turned away from her. "So nature has given griata a tiny shell that covers it to keep it safe. Before you can claim the treasure, you have to carefully remove the shield."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, reminding him of a little girl he knew a long time ago. "Part of your shell is not touching," she whispered.
"You got it. It's easy to stay distant if you don't rely on anyone for anything, including creature comforts like touching."
She cast him a doubting look. "Are you really that jaded?"
He shrugged. "I'm a lot more brittle than Kip. All things given proper credit, my life has been a hell of a lot easier than his. Instead of a griata, he's more like a torna."
"What's a torna?"
"It's a rare flower grown on Ritadaria. If you try to pick the blossom, the leaves wrap around you and strangle you to death."
Horrified by his words, she stared at him.
He shrugged. "You asked." Stooping, he retrieved the blankets from the floor. "I hate blankets," he muttered, leaving her alone to dwell on his words.
*