The electronic whir of the lock disengaging echoed like a gunshot in the silent bathroom, but the door didn't fly open.
It cracked. Just an inch.
Adonis had stopped.
Through the sliver of space, Nikki could see him. He was standing rigid, his hand hovering over the handle, his chest heaving as if he—a machine who didn't need air—was out of breath.
"Nikki," he said, his voice strained, stripped of its usual smooth cadence. "You commanded me to stop. I have stopped. But your distress signal is critical. Please. Grant access."
Nikki sat on the closed toilet lid, clutching a wad of tissue, tears streaming down her face. She felt ridiculous. And here she was, crying over biology.
She took a deep, shuddering breath.
He's a robot, she told herself, wiping her eyes fiercely. He's seen war. He's seen surgery. He's seen death. A little blood isn't going to make his head explode.
