Page 44 of Rogue Voice

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. They were clear, but already hazier than they’d been moments earlier. Heblinked, then blinked again, as if suddenly struggling to stay awake.

Embarrassment hit her, then. That the first kiss in her life, to which she was attaching such meaning, would be to a man who wouldn’t even remember it.

But oh, the man could kiss. If this was him now, what would he kiss like when he was healthy?

Throughout the night, Bea continued bathing his forehead with the damp cloth, aware that this might be more for her benefit than his. Every few hours, Slate poked his head inside and forced some pills into Rogue’s mouth but it felt right to bathe his forehead. And Rogue’s sighs whenever she touched him—and it was hard to find spots to touch him that weren’t marred by wounds or bruises—let her know she was doing the right thing.

At some point, she fell asleep, holding on to his hand—needing that contact more than air itself.

Slowly, light began filtering through the tent’s thick fabric. Rogue’s breathing was steadier now. She touched his forehead with the back of her hand and for the first time didn’t feel him burn.

The tent’s zipper pulled open. It’d startled her, the first few times it’d happened during the night, but not anymore. Bea moved to the side to make space for Slate’s head and shoulders.

She laughed to think she could ever have mistaken this huge beast of a man for a priest. And yet, he was gentle with Rogue. Gentle, calm, and efficient. She felt herself relax as she watched him.

“You’re a doctor?” she asked hopefully.

“A medic,” he replied.

“In the Army?”

He didn’t confirm, but his shoulders tensed visibly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay. You’re not prying. I just can’t talk about it.”

Eventually, he looked up at her. For the first time, a slow smile tugged at his lips. “He’s doing better. We’ll let him sleep as long as possible, but we need to get going soon. I’ve identified a possible pickup spot for the team to meet us.” He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, but his words made Bea shiver.

“How far do we have to go?” Bea asked. Her feet, in the soft slippers she’d been wearing, were killing her. The thought of having to walk much further made her want to cry.

Slate seemed to consider his answer for a long instant. “At the pace we were moving yesterday, four hours, give or take.”

Four hours.Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away angrily and clenched her teeth together.

“We need to be there before the helicopter gets there. It would be dangerous for them to hover in the area any longer than the time it takes for us to get on.

Bea nodded bravely. “Okay.” She wasn’t going to be trouble. She wasn’t going to give this man a reason to leave her behind. Whatever happened, she wanted to stay with Rogue.

19

Bea

“We stop here.” Slate slid Rogue down to the floor gently.

“Why? Is something wrong? Is he okay?” Bea asked, coming up behind them. It felt like they’d been walking forever, but she knew it’d been nowhere near four hours.

“Rogue’s fine. I want to look at your feet,” Slate said tersely.

“My feet?” she asked, panicked. She’d been pushing herself as hard as she could, through pain that made it feel like she was stepping on razor blades with every step she took. She’d thought she was keeping pace with the man in front of her. She’d thought he hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. But the way he was looking at her now, made her realize just how wrong she was.

Slate spread a cloth—the priest’s cloak—on the ground and pointed with his finger.

“Sit down.” It was an order, and one she didn’t think of disobeying. Her once white skirt, now heavily stained in greens and browns, fluttered around her. If Oscar Aguilar had had his way, that skirt would have been stained red. A different kind of stain.

Bea pulled in a choked breath as Slate kneeled in front of her and pulled off first her left, then her right slipper. Her feet looked like the raw meat used in the kitchen to makealbóndigas. Bile rose to her mouth, but she forced herself to swallow it. She wasn’t going to throw up. Slate’s lips were a taught, thin line.

“You should have told me it was this bad.” He sounded angry, and it took her an instant to realize he was angry at himself, not at her.

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