Page 177 of Starside

“Please,” I say, my voice breaking on the word. Tears slip down my face, sliding against his armor. I can’t stand here and not help. I can’t live when everyone else doesn’t. I can’t.

Not again.

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t move an inch. Not as I push. Not as I scrape with my nails. Not as I beg. He just stands there against me, body firm and all-encompassing and unyielding as the screams grow louder.

Then—

As they go quiet.

“Bastard,” I say, voice shaking in a sob. “Demon. You … heartless, merciless monster.” For hours, I call him every name I know. I curse him over and over.

But he seems to have endless armor everywhere, even over his heart, even over his feelings, because his body does not shift in the slightest. He is not moved. He does not move, even when I dig my nails into the skin of his neck, even when I plead.

Only when the sun rises, and all traces of the demons are gone, does he budge. He shoves off the rock and lands on the ground. I land in front of him, legs nearly buckling from exhaustion.

The forest is carnage. Skin hangs off the trees. Blood spatters the ground. I fall to my knees and retch.

When I finally look up again, he’s just staring at me, his hood and mask covering everything. But I imagine if I could see his face, it would be as smooth and expressionless as the cliff we just clung to for our lives.

I get to my feet and stumble toward him. I stab my finger into his chest and say with every smelted inch of my soul, “I hate you, Harlan Raker.”

He just looks down at me for a moment. His gaze dips to the finger still in the center of his chest and then back up at me.

“Good,” he finally says.

And then he turns around, back toward the path.

But I’m not fucking finished.

I really don’t know what I’m thinking. Maybe I just want to get a scratch in that spotless armor, maybe I just want to show him he’s as fallible as us all.

Blinded by my tears and fury, I unsheathe my blade as fast as he taught me and hurl it through his back.

Or I would have.

If he hadn’t unsheathed his sword so fas. It flies through his fingers, into the air—and then is caught behind his spine, perfectly blocking my hit, while the rest of him still faces the opposite direction. He sheathes it again in the same second.

Shit.

He turns in a flash, and then he’s right in front of me. Furious.

“You hate me?” he demands, spitting the words.

“Yes,” I reply, falling into my stance. The one he helped me perfect.

“Prove it.”

Then his sword is hurling toward my neck.

I lift mine, blocking it, the force of his hit nearly enough for me to drop my weapon, but I don’t. I spin, then lash out, slamming my steel against his, over and over, spilling my fury and sadness and rage into every single movement. He takes it, for just a few moments.

Then he meets me stroke for stroke, harder, forcing me to stumble back with every strike, my jaw clenching as his hits get rougher and rougher.

Our metals crash together, and I feel their joining in my teeth, it rings through my blood, ripples down my spine.

Raker isn’t even using a fraction of that famous strength, and it’s still nearly enough to bring me to my knees.

My body rattles as it takes another hit. My sweaty hands barely keep their grip on the hilt. Air rushes through my lips with the force of him.