caught her attention, and she looked up to find both Sheridans gazing at her with thinly veiled horror. Realizing what she’d said, Ryelle
quickly pulled back and tucked her hand in her lap, though she left her other hand in Declan’s secure clasp. He tightened his hold and gave her a
smile when she glanced at him, but his eyes flicked to the couple warily.
"No one…touches you?" Mem Sheridan asked in a faint voice.
"I don’t have—family and the Institute has different, um, customs…" Ryelle said, trying to explain her upbringing in a way
that sounded somewhere close to normal. She could tell by their aghast expressions that she was failing.
"They’re afraid of her," Declan said in a harsh tone, staring at their hosts with a grim set to his mouth. "The bastards have been
treating her like she was some kind of monster all her life. Sorry for the language, Mem," he added to the Chief’s wife, though she
didn’t seem to notice.
Ryelle looked down at her lap miserably. She couldn’t understand the anger in his tone. She was a monster—the Institute understood that. It was
only these people that didn’t seem to be catching on.
"No child deserves to be raised without love and especially not without simple decency," Mem Sheridan whispered and Ryelle looked up to see
tears trembling on her lashes. "They are the monsters." The Chief reached for his wife and she took his hand without looking away from Ryelle.
"You have been sorely mistreated, my dear. Believe me when I say they will hear of it from us." Her voice had gained strength as she spoke,
ending on a note of diamond sharp anger that matched the hardening of her features. The Chief nodded, looking at his wife with a little smile and a light
in his eyes.
Before Ryelle could marshal a response, the older woman shook her head briskly, wiping her wet lashes with swift fingers. "But not without
fortification. Our breakfast is getting cold and though holding hands is quite nice," she said with a wink at her husband, "it does complicate
eating."
The Chief raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles before letting her go. Ryelle sent a quick glance at Declan, but though his mouth curved
in a small smile, he didn’t copy the Chief’s action, giving a squeeze before letting go. She was startled by how cold and bereft her hand felt
without his around it.
The meal was odd, for Ryelle at least. The food itself was as delicious as she’d come to expect from the officer’s head chef, but she’d
never experienced such relaxed conversation. They spoke of trivial, domestic matters, but there was a flow and rhythm to it that washed around her like a
river of music. The Chief told his wife about his crew’s latest antics, which Declan modified and embellished with enthusiasm. Mem Sheridan spoke of
her own acquaintances. There was speculation about a lover’s triangle among crew members that Ryelle didn’t know and Declan made her smile with
stories of his roommate’s obnoxious sleeping habits.
So normal. So…wonderful. Ryelle didn’t ever want to leave. But eventually the Chief sighed and sent her an apologetic grimace.
"I’m afraid I have a confession, my dear. Your Institute tried to contact you earlier." Ryelle felt her stomach dive, but he wasn’t
finished. "I referred them to the commander, who informed them of my aversion to their presence in my home and my refusal to allow them entrance.
They wanted you to wear your pretty headdress again, you see. But I rather loath the thing."
Ryelle’s hands flew to her temples and she was shocked to feel nothing but her silky hair. She had completely forgotten to return to her quarters and
put the snood back on. "Oh, no," she breathed, feeling a spurt of panic at what Grieve would have to say.
"Yes, well, the commander has graciously extended his order that you not wear it in his presence to include my wife and I, and our quarters. I
can’t imagine that it will be long before the
quickly pulled back and tucked her hand in her lap, though she left her other hand in Declan’s secure clasp. He tightened his hold and gave her a
smile when she glanced at him, but his eyes flicked to the couple warily.
"No one…touches you?" Mem Sheridan asked in a faint voice.
"I don’t have—family and the Institute has different, um, customs…" Ryelle said, trying to explain her upbringing in a way
that sounded somewhere close to normal. She could tell by their aghast expressions that she was failing.
"They’re afraid of her," Declan said in a harsh tone, staring at their hosts with a grim set to his mouth. "The bastards have been
treating her like she was some kind of monster all her life. Sorry for the language, Mem," he added to the Chief’s wife, though she
didn’t seem to notice.
Ryelle looked down at her lap miserably. She couldn’t understand the anger in his tone. She was a monster—the Institute understood that. It was
only these people that didn’t seem to be catching on.
"No child deserves to be raised without love and especially not without simple decency," Mem Sheridan whispered and Ryelle looked up to see
tears trembling on her lashes. "They are the monsters." The Chief reached for his wife and she took his hand without looking away from Ryelle.
"You have been sorely mistreated, my dear. Believe me when I say they will hear of it from us." Her voice had gained strength as she spoke,
ending on a note of diamond sharp anger that matched the hardening of her features. The Chief nodded, looking at his wife with a little smile and a light
in his eyes.
Before Ryelle could marshal a response, the older woman shook her head briskly, wiping her wet lashes with swift fingers. "But not without
fortification. Our breakfast is getting cold and though holding hands is quite nice," she said with a wink at her husband, "it does complicate
eating."
The Chief raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles before letting her go. Ryelle sent a quick glance at Declan, but though his mouth curved
in a small smile, he didn’t copy the Chief’s action, giving a squeeze before letting go. She was startled by how cold and bereft her hand felt
without his around it.
The meal was odd, for Ryelle at least. The food itself was as delicious as she’d come to expect from the officer’s head chef, but she’d
never experienced such relaxed conversation. They spoke of trivial, domestic matters, but there was a flow and rhythm to it that washed around her like a
river of music. The Chief told his wife about his crew’s latest antics, which Declan modified and embellished with enthusiasm. Mem Sheridan spoke of
her own acquaintances. There was speculation about a lover’s triangle among crew members that Ryelle didn’t know and Declan made her smile with
stories of his roommate’s obnoxious sleeping habits.
So normal. So…wonderful. Ryelle didn’t ever want to leave. But eventually the Chief sighed and sent her an apologetic grimace.
"I’m afraid I have a confession, my dear. Your Institute tried to contact you earlier." Ryelle felt her stomach dive, but he wasn’t
finished. "I referred them to the commander, who informed them of my aversion to their presence in my home and my refusal to allow them entrance.
They wanted you to wear your pretty headdress again, you see. But I rather loath the thing."
Ryelle’s hands flew to her temples and she was shocked to feel nothing but her silky hair. She had completely forgotten to return to her quarters and
put the snood back on. "Oh, no," she breathed, feeling a spurt of panic at what Grieve would have to say.
"Yes, well, the commander has graciously extended his order that you not wear it in his presence to include my wife and I, and our quarters. I
can’t imagine that it will be long before the
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