The Mech Who Loved Me(16)

Ian fumbled for his hand, his thin forearm barely able to lift off the coverlet. Kincaid caught his uncle's straining grasp, his fingers brushing against paper-thin skin. 

"I know, you... daft fool." Ian tried to squeeze, but the effort was lackluster at best.

And it hurt to look at him. Hurt to sit here and listen to Ian's lungs slowly forcing themselves to work, even as the muscles that surrounded them resisted. It was some sort of palsy, the doctors said. A slow degenerative swan dive that stole his uncle bit by bit, and ran in the family.

Heat seared his eyes.

"Here, now," Ian scolded. "No tears, Liam. Tell me... about this girl. This... pretty girl you brought home."

And so he told him about Ava. It wasn't as though he made her out to be something she was not, but he let himself open up in a way he rarely did, if only to give his uncle some hope. And it was difficult not to notice his voice warm at the words, a warmth that seemed to flood through him whenever she was around.

Trouble. Kincaid stared at the patterns on the coverlet, seeing the heat in her cheeks when she'd blurted out the fact she thought she was going to die a virgin.

He'd been half ready to offer to help her out with that prospect, but she... she wasn't like the usual sort of women he seduced. And he couldn't offer her anything else. Perhaps they shared an attraction, but they came from different worlds, and they were travelling to different places. Maybe he could show her she wasn't undesirable, or even difficult to be around, but he'd only break her heart in the end, and he wasn't bastard enough to start them down that road.

And so he only told his uncle half the truth.

"She sounds... lovely," Ian rasped.

"She is." He paused. "She's a blue blood."

"A leech?"

"She's not like that." He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, the muscles in his chest stretching. "I'm earning good coin at the moment." The change in topic made Ian's eyes narrow, but Kincaid pushed on. "I've got enough saved up... to see you with a nurse, or even to admit you to-"

"No."

"Or what about renting another house?" he continued, despite the expected resistance. "We could get one with bedrooms on the ground floor, and I could design a steam-powered wheeled chair that could give you some independence-"

"No."

"Why not?" He leaned forward, the front two feet of the chair hitting the timber floor. "Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?"

"I'll not see... you into debt for-"

"So you can enjoy what's left? Or so it's easier on Orla? I'd care for you if I could, but we can't afford for me to lose this job!" Kincaid shoved to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. "The Duke of Malloryn's offered me the assistance of the Royal College of Physicians. They're working on this disorder, and I could insist upon having a doctor to call upon you. After all, a blue blood's saliva can heal wounds, and the craving virus can heal anything, so there's a chance they could extract the healing components of the virus from a blue blood and-"

"Malloryn? The duke?"

"He's pleased with the work I'm doing and so-"

"No!" This time his uncle twisted in the sheets, a flinch of frustration that was all his body would allow. "I'm done, boy. You're the only one... who won't accept... it."

"Can't."

"Won't." Ian gurgled deep in his throat. "I'm content. Just leave me... be. I've accepted my lot. The only thing that could hurt me at this... stage is false hope."

"There's no saying it's false, until we explore all of our options."

"I don't... want to explore... them! I don't want... to hope!" Tears gleamed in his uncle's eyes. "Just let me die, Liam."



       
         
       
        

"Maybe it's to give me some hope then?" he shot back, and Ian froze.

Their eyes met.

Kincaid cursed under his breath. "Forget I said it." He turned and paced to the window, lifting the lower pane of glass so fresh air flooded the stale room. Being in here made him sick to his stomach. And what kind of coward was he? To condemn Orla to this fate when he himself couldn't handle it?

Keep telling yourself it's the prospect of work that keeps you away.

He lowered his head, knowing Ian was watching him. Knowing his uncle could read his mind.

"I'll let you die," he whispered, "though I can't watch it. I can't." Not again. He'd seen men die a hundred times over in the enclaves and he wasn't certain what was better-a sudden, brutal accident, or this long, slow decline.