And now she was giving him an out—permission to use it. Alleviate the pain in the short-term, and if it went bad, she’d hobble him back together after the fact … but he wasn’t that guy anymore. At least he didn’t want to be.
He pulled up one corner of his mouth and gave her the most sincerely grateful nod he’d ever given. “Thank you, sir. But I’m not gonna take it.”
Her warm eyes glistened, and her weary stoicism gave way to a hint of … something. The shriveled optimist in him almost wanted to say respect, but it was probably just relief.
He cleared his throat. “Can you do one thing for me, sir?”
“Maybe,” she said tentatively.
“Restrict the admin controls for our Imprints?”
Her face paled as she looked down at her nexus. “Void,” she grumbled as she opened a menu and tapped furiously into the screen. “I forgot I did that.” She finished typing and looked back up at him, cheeks flushed again, but this time with anger.
He wet his dry lips, unsure if her rage was directed at him.
She said nothing for a few seconds, then took a deep breath. “You won’t tell me who did it?”
He considered it again, for the briefest moment. He’d love to see Rake beat the shit out of someone, but getting the anti-royalists in trouble wasn’t likely to endear him to the rest of the Sentinels.
Rake seemed to take note of his silence. She didn’t press him further, but simply let out a sigh and said, “I’m sorry, Cavalon.”
“It’s not your fault,” he assured. “But I think it’ll be better if they don’t see you protecting me all the time. You’re not always going to be able to babysit me.”
She nodded, then glanced over at Griffith. “Have the results come back?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary yet, but it’s only about half done.”
“I’m going to go check on Puck and Jack. Let me know when you find something out?”
“Of course.”
Rake hovered for a few silent seconds, then turned and left.
Cavalon closed his eyes and steadied his breath.
Apex-relapse crisis averted. Time to refocus. Busy himself. Find other ways to ignore his pain.
He’d wanted a chance to gain their trust, to be useful. Rake wanted answers. He would find her answers.
So he ignored the humming diagnostic machine and went to a stack of equipment crates in the corner of the room. He dug through each until he found a cytoscope headset and a pair of interface gloves. This tech, he knew. This was Genetic Engineering 101. He would take a peek at Griffith’s cells and see what was going on.
He dropped a sample of Griffith’s blood into the side of the cytoscope, then pulled on the wired gloves and headset. Using the gloves to navigate, he zoomed in on the cells until they filled his range of vision. He focused inward and concentrated on the relevant memories, shoving aside all the mechanical and theoretical knowledge that wouldn’t do him any good. It was time to focus on biology.
Much to his chagrin, he’d been a natural at genetic engineering. He’d completed the degree in half the standard six-year allotment, and outshone his peers, and even professors, by almost an absurd magnitude. He didn’t know if he excelled just to get it over with as quickly as possible, or if he’d actually wanted to master the subject—to arm himself against his grandfather by becoming more adept than even him. Either way, Cavalon had hated every bloody minute of it.
He supposed he should be glad for it, now. He might be able to use it to help Rake, to save Griffith. As he processed what he saw through the headset, however, that small solace faded.