Saekro lurched backward, his features twisting with disgust while Kunya scuttled a safe distance away.
Jak’ri would’ve laughed if he hadn’t worried they’d retaliate.
Once finished, Ava rolled onto her back again and seemed to lose consciousness.
Yanking off his lab coat, Saekro glared at Ava then addressed the guard. “Put her in with the Purveli. Let him clean her up.”
Jak’ri tried not to let his relief show. Ava was too weak to care for herself. Her best chance of surviving whatever the srul they had dosed her with was if she was in his cell where he could help her.
As he had the last time, Mocna hooked an arm around Ava’s waist and carried her like a bag. “Back away,” he ordered.
Jak’ri obediently backed away. When Mocna tossed Ava inside with no care for sparing her injury, Jak’ri again dove forward and caught her before she could hit the ground.
Saekro stomped out of the lab with Kunya on his heels. Mocna activated a disinfection bot, withdrew to his post in the hallway, and closed the door.
Jak’ri sat on his heels, knees scuffed and bleeding, and stared down at Ava as the little bot rolled around the operating table, cleaning up the mess. “They’re gone,” he murmured.
Her eyes opened, bright with fever and—much to his surprise—amusement. Her chapped lips turned up in a weak smile. “I got him good, didn’t I?”
He laughed. “Yes, you did. I have no doubt he is now racing for a decontamination shower. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kunya move so quickly.”
A chuckle rumbled in her chest. “Wanted out of the line of fire. Thank you for making me eat and drink before they took me.”
“I admit that wasn’t my purpose.”
“Yet it worked out so well.” She attempted to sit up. “Would you help me to the lav? I want to rinse my mouth out.”
“Of course.”
Instead of helping her rise, he carried her in there. It was a tight squeeze for the two of them, but they managed. Jak’ri lowered her bare feet to the floor and steadied her while she rinsed her mouth with wosuur and splashed cool water on her face. She insisted on walking out on her own and held onto to the bars dividing their cells while Jak’ri pulled the blankets from her cell into his and made a thicker pallet.
Taking her hand, he helped her kneel on the blankets. Then he sat and urged her to lie down with her head in his lap.
Once settled, she sighed and closed her eyes. One of her small hands sought his and clung to it.
Murmuring soothing nonsense, he rested a hand on her warm head and stroked her hair until sleep claimed her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jak’ri fought back despair. Ava had been ill for three days now and showed no signs of recovery. Rather her condition seemed to deteriorate more by the hour. He had thought the first day the worst. She had vomited up everything she put in her mouth, gradually growing so weak that he’d had to carry her into the lav and support her while she lost the small amount of nutrients she managed to consume because she lacked the strength to stand on her own.
Even when there had been nothing left to come up, her stomach had heaved and heaved until she’d said her abdominal muscles ached.
The loss of liquid concerned him the most. She was stricken with a high fever, her face flushing from the heat of it, the light in her eyes dulling. He didn’t know if dehydration would kill her people as quickly as it would his but feared the answer as her fever continued to climb.
How much heat could her frail form tolerate?
Ava had gamely told him not to worry that first day. But by the second she was barely coherent, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Jak’ri reached for her canteen and removed the lid. Sliding an arm beneath her shoulders, he elevated her head and chest and sat behind her so she could lean against him. “Ava?” he called softly.
She turned her head into his chest. Her hand moved as though she wanted to curl an arm around him but was too exhausted to do so.
He pressed a hand to her forehead and found it as warm as a stone in the desert that had spent a full day collecting the heat of the sun. “Ava.” He touched the canteen to her mouth. “You must drink something.” He dribbled a little liquid onto her dry, cracked lips.
Her brow furrowed. “Hmm?”
“Try to drink something, sakara,” he coaxed.
Her eyelashes fluttered, then lifted. She stared up at him a long moment, her brown eyes unfocused. “Jak’ri?”
“Yes.” Forcing a smile, he pressed the canteen to her lips again. “Drink for me, sakara.”
She parted her lips a fraction. Jak’ri dribbled liquid between them, going slowly in case she had any difficulty swallowing. Her throat had been sore the previous day.
She swallowed. Once. Twice. And hope rose that she might be improving.
A few swallows later, however, she coughed, splattering him with the nutrient drink.
Jak’ri hastily set the canteen aside and helped her sit up straighter so she wouldn’t choke. He feared for a moment she might vomit again and lose what little liquid she’d consumed, but she managed to bring the coughing under control and sank against him with a weary sigh.
“This sucks,” she murmured.
He’d learned enough of her Earth vernacular to understand her meaning. “Yes, it does.”
“How long have I been sick?”
“Three days.”
He poured some of the liquid from his canteen onto a folded strip of fabric he’d torn from their pallet. Then he drew the damp fabric over her face and down her neck and arms in an attempt to cool her, wishing there was more he could do, struggling to combat the fear that she was dying.
“Have you slept at all?” she asked.
Tears burned the backs of his eyes. Even as miserable as she must be, she thought of his well-being. “So much that Ziv’ri would accuse me of being lazy were he here.”
Ava mustered a faint smile. “Liar.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded and cuddled her closer. He had already lost his brother. How could he stand to lose Ava, too?
“I’m dying, aren’t I?” she asked softly.
He stubbornly shook his head. “No. You’ll recover from this.”
“I’m so weak,” she breathed. “It’s hard to think straight.”
He reached for one of the nutrient cubes he hadn’t had the appetite to consume. “You should eat something. It’ll help you rebuild your strength.” Peeling the packaging off one-handed, he touched it to her lips.
Grimacing, Ava turned her face away. “I can’t.”
“Please, sakara. For me.”
She stared up at him. And she went so long without blinking that absolute terror gripped him.
“Ava?”
She blinked.
And the relief that flooded him left him shaky inside.
“What does sakara mean?” she asked.
“It’s a Purveli endearment,” he confessed.
One corner of her lips turned up the slightest bit. “I like it.”
He forced a smile. “I was afraid you might object, or think me presumptuous.”
Her lips curled up even more. “Oh. So it’s that kind of endearment. The serious kind.”