Page 46 of Bonded To The Arena Master

"The southern regulators will remain closed until Zog replaces the shattered conduit," I say.

"How many days?"

"Three if the summoned crystal holds its charge. Five if it fractures during shaping."

"My metallic stock will oxidize before then."

"Move it here."

"This room has inadequate ventilation and no planting beds."

"Then tell Grolm what must be altered."

She stops grinding.

Green eyes rise to mine, guarded and searching. Yesterday she would have treated the order as another attempt to govern her. Today she appears uncertain whether I have granted authority or created a test.

"He will object," she says.

"He objects professionally. Make him useful despite it."

The corner of her mouth threatens rebellion in another form. She suppresses it and scrapes the pestle against the bowl.

"Sit down."

I look at the severe human chair beside the counter.

"It will not hold me."

"The stone ledge will."

"Why?"

She points the pestle at my left forearm. "Because that scrape is collecting dust."

The damage crosses two plates of carapace below my elbow. It is shallow. No fluid seeps from it, and the arm bears weight without weakness. Arena fighters enter contests with worse injuries after warming their weapons.

"It requires nothing."

"Then you can lose nothing by allowing me to clean it."

Her logic remains an irritant.

I sit on the ledge.

The stone groans beneath my weight but holds. Beatrix brings the bowl, a narrow spatula, two cloths, and a stoppered vessel of clear liquid. She places them beside me in a precise row.

"Arm."

I extend it.

Her fingers close around my wrist. Human warmth meets the underside of my carapace where the plating thins. The contact is clinical. My body records it otherwise.

She turns my forearm toward the window and studies the scrape. Red grit clings inside the scored plates. One edge has lifted enough to expose the darker living layer beneath.

"This would heal badly if the dust remains," she says.

"It would heal."