“I don’t want to be her counter-weapon,” I mutter. “I just want to not be a hazard.”
“Too late,” Mira says dryly. “You’ve always been a hazard. Now you’re just a conscious one.”
Despite myself, I snort.
She squeezes my knee, then reclaims her hand, grabbing a stylus and flicking it between her fingers.
“Okay,” she says. “Family trauma bullet-pointed. Now we get back to the part where you detonated half a harmonic bond on a smuggler med-bed.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I really don’t want to talk about—”
“You do,” she says. “Or you wouldn’t be here. Walk me through it. Not the mechanics,” she adds, smirking. “I don’t need Theron’s greatest hits. The resonance.”
I shove her with my shoulder. She barely rocks.
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
“Most important things aren’t,” Mira says. “Go on.”
