Rendor clambered to his feet, but he swayed as the color leaked from his face. She tried to steady him but with only one good leg she couldn’t support his weight let alone her own. They both toppled to the ground. She landed on top of him and he grabbed her instinctively.

“Maybe you should catch your breath before trying to stand,” Shyla said.

He grunted and closed his eyes.

“My weight on your chest is probably not helping.”

Instead of releasing her, he held her tighter. His body heat warmed her and, surprisingly, she didn’t mind the strong sweaty odor of Rendor—a mix of male musk with a hint of ginger. She breathed it in. It was a nice distraction from the throbbing in her leg. The hard vibrations from Rendor’s heart eased after a few moments. He opened his eyes and relaxed his grip.

“Better?” she asked, sliding off him.

“Yes.” He sat up and stood. This time he remained standing. “Can you walk?”

She held out a hand. Rendor grabbed it and pulled her, gently, to her feet. Putting weight on her bad leg caused considerable pain but it didn’t collapse under her—a small victory. She tied her wrap around her leg to staunch the blood and tried a few steps on her own. “Yes, but not far.”

The good news—Orla’s commune was only three levels away. The bad news—they had to climb up.

Rendor supported her as she limped with slow agonizing steps. His desire to just carry her was obvious with every flex of his muscles. They finally reached the commune.

“Get Zhek,” Rendor barked at the first person they encountered. He escorted her to one of Zhek’s examination rooms and helped her onto the table. Once she was settled, he pulled away.

“Don’t go,” she said to him, grabbing his hand.

He hesitated. That hurt more than the knife wound. Yet, he had come to her rescue, almost losing his life in order to save hers.

“Guess I’ll just have to get into trouble again,” she said and released her grip. “Do you think Yates—”

“Don’t joke about that.” His harsh words rasped with fear and anger.

Exhaustion had caught up to her, making it difficult to block his emotions. “Then stay.”

“I can’t.”

His conflict was clear, though it was mixed with another deeper longing and, underneath it all, passion, maybe love. It was too complex to sort out and she wouldn’t intrude by probing his soul.

She met his gaze, remembering the argument they’d had—it seemed like circuits ago. She didn’t have the words then, but she knew what to say now. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For not responding to the idiot in the common room. For worrying about what the other Invisible Swords thought about us. For not jumping into your arms when I had the chance.”