She stared at him in silence for what felt like a very long time.
After a while, he said, “I didn’t say anything. I thought you should be the one to tell him … I’m really sorry.”
She broke her gaze and turned around, and the door slid open before her.
“Griff,” she breathed, whisking across the room to his cot.
Griffith’s eyes opened a sliver, and his face crunched into a smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling deeper. “Mo’acair.” His low voice rumbled like churning gravel.
She knelt beside the cot and gripped his hand. “How do you feel?” She tried her hardest to maintain a steady voice despite her heart hammering up into her throat.
“Never better.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“I’m tired, but I feel fine, really,” he said, sounding like he actually believed himself. “What happened?”
She tempered her racing pulse by reminding herself to breathe slowly. In, then out. “We’re not sure. Might have been a seizure or stroke. You were unconscious for a couple of hours. How much do you remember?”
“You mean, do I remember almost getting swallowed up by the Divide, getting boarded, Drudgers killing half my crew, the Tempus exploding, Ivana bleeding out, and you admitting you let Viator captives go free, stayed silent while Lugen swept it under the rug, then kept it from me for five years?”
She cleared her throat. “Specific. Good to see your memory’s intact.”
He shook his head slowly, eyes drifting closed. “I’m sorry, Quin.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
He sighed, running a heavy hand down the side of his face. “Nothing like almost dying again to make you reevaluate a knee-jerk reaction.”
A twinge of relief squeezed under her rib cage. “Knee-jerk?” she asked. “You were pretty pissed.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m still plenty pissed. I hate that you did that, I really do. I’m having a hard time even processing it. And honestly, I don’t know if I’ll be able to forgive you.”
She gave a soft nod, that same twinge of relief turning bitter as it slid down into the pit of her stomach.
“But like you said,” he continued, tone soft, “one act doesn’t define someone, good or bad. I hate what you did. Not you.”
A sudden chill pricked her skin, and she blinked back at him.
“Which is why, even though I can’t agree with the choice you made,” he went on, “I can understand it. Or try to, at least. I can see the path of logic that got you there.” He let out a few short coughs, holding his side and grimacing. “It’s that damn even-keeled wisdom I admire … that’s what you used to make that decision. But I still can’t say if it was the right or wrong one.”
She managed a slow nod, turning his words over in her mind. It wasn’t absolution, but she’d never expected that. At least he understood her perspective, could admit its validity. With time, maybe he could work toward forgiveness. But time wasn’t something he had.
“Just so I know,” he continued, “who else knows about what happened on Paxus?”
“The only person I ever told was Lugen. As far as I know, only him.”
“Damn, Quin. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”
She gave him a weak grin. “Caecus Level Alpha.”
He scoffed. “To the void with security levels. This has been eating away at you for five years. You should have told me, let me help you.”