Page 27 of Salvation for the Alien Mercenary
"That's not an excuse," Ryke replied.
"Didn't say it was," Rann shrugged. "Just saying there's more to it."
Mira pushed her plate away and stood. "I should go. Thank you for breakfast."
No one tried to stop her as she fled the galley, Spot skittering after her. The little robot chirped encouragingly, matching her hurried pace down the corridor.
She had no destination in mind; she simply needed to be away from everyone. What had gotten into Davis? The man who'd kissed her last night, who'd looked at her with such intensity, such hunger, seemed completely different from the enraged person who'd attacked Rann over a simple wink.
A wink. Was that it? Was he...
Jealous?
The thought seemed absurd. Davis Tell, protective of her? The same man who couldn't even look at her this morning?
She slowed her pace, suddenly uncertain. Where was she even going?
The training deck was empty, with everyone else in the galley and Jex presumably in the unused cargobay that served as his quarters. She slipped inside, the doors closing behind her with a reassuring hiss. Spot trotted along at her heels, sensors swiveling as he assessed the large, open space.
She sank down on a bench, burying her face in her hands. What was happening? First the kiss in the medbay, then the cold shoulder at breakfast, followed by that explosive confrontation. None of it made sense.
Spot chirped inquisitively, climbing onto the bench beside her.
"I don't know," she answered the unspoken question. "But something's very wrong with Davis. And I have no idea what."
6
This place stank worse than usual.
The trading post hit Davis's senses like a physical assault. Countless voices bargained and argued beneath the curved metal dome. The air was thick with conflicting scents—spiced meats, engine exhaust, and the sweat of a dozen different species. Every sound seemed amplified, separated into distinct layers he could focus on at will.
His skin burned. Not with pain, exactly, but with a crawling awareness that hadn't let up since he'd woken. His combat fatigues caught against his thighs with every step, the fabric suddenly too constricting.
Anson walked beside him, dark eyes flicking over to study him when he thought he wasn't looking.
"So," Anson said, sidestepping a verlatian with brightly colored fabrics over one of his many arms, "that was quite a show at breakfast."
His jaw clenched. "Drop it."
"Come on, Tell. You nearly ripped Rann's throat out over a wink." Anson's lips quirked. "Even for you, that's extreme."
"I said drop it." He kept his gaze forward, counting the scales on a Drakronian three shops ahead, and picking out individual teeth on the Morrigaal haggling over meat opposite. The clarity of his vision wasn't normal.
"Fine." Anson raised his hands. "Just making conversation."
They passed a food stall where something sizzled loudly. The smell slammed into him—charred protein, spices, the cook's sweat. His stomach cramped with hunger so intense it forced him to pause.
"You okay?" Anson frowned.
“I’m fine." He pushed forward. "Let's get this over with."
The B’Kaar studied him. "Are you wearing heels?”
"What?” He sliced a glare sideways.
"You just seem taller." Anson's eyes narrowed. "Did Covak slip you Vorrtan growth hormones along with whatever freakish medicine he used on your chest?"
He snorted. "Don't be fucking ridiculous."
