Page 28 of Salvation for the Alien Mercenary
A polished metal panel caught his reflection—distorted, but enough to make him look twice. The angle of his jaw seemed sharper.
"You're imagining things," he muttered, turning away from the reflection. Anson had always been prone to exaggeration, putting it all down to ‘B’Kaar senses’. Which was all bullshit as far as Davis could see. Technology intuition was one thing, but claiming to see physical changes was another.
His thoughts circled back to Mira. Her expression when he'd confronted Rann. Not fear, exactly. Wariness… Confusion.
Shit. He'd ruined everything. Whatever had started in the medbay last night—whatever electric, impossible thing had sparked between them when he'd pressed her against that counter—he'd shattered it with his behavior this morning.
The kiss replayed in his mind over and over. The softness of her lips. The small sound she'd made when she’d pressed against him. The way her hands had moved over his chest, fingers trailing fire across his skin.
He'd lain awake most of the night, the memory burning through him. More than once, he'd nearly left his quarters, drawn to her door by something primal he couldn't name.
He should have gone to her. Should have explained that he was sorry. That seeing Rann near her had triggered something he couldn't control.
Instead, like a coward, he'd stayed in his quarters… watching the hours tick away while his newly healed skin itched and burned. By morning, the wound that should have taken weeks to heal had vanished completely, leaving only a faint line across his chest.
"You're quiet," Anson observed as they turned down a narrower corridor lined with tech shops.
"Just thinking," he muttered.
"About Mira?" Anson waggled his eyebrows. "Because I saw the way she was looking at you this morning. Before you went feral, that is."
His head snapped toward Anson. "How was she looking at me?"
The eagerness in his own voice caught him off guard. So did the sudden clarity of Anson's face—individual pores, eyelashes, the faint pulse of ke'lath lines beneath his skin. His vision had sharpened again, triggered by... what? Emotion?
Anson's smile widened. "Like you hung the moons, you draanthing idiot.”
Something fluttered in his chest. Could it be true?
Anson slid a glance sideways as they approached a bar with a flickering neon sign. "You know, for someone who prides himself on being observant, you're remarkably blind when it comes to women."
"Mind your own business," he growled, but without heat.
"I would, but your business is affecting mission effectiveness." Anson's tone shifted. "Whatever's going on with you isn't exactly subtle. Covak said that wound should have kept you in medbay for a week."
He tensed. "Covak exaggerates."
"Not about medical issues." Anson paused at the doorway. "Look, I don't care what this thing is between you and Mira. But if it affects the team, it becomes my problem."
Before he could reply, Anson pushed through the door leaving him to follow along like a damn puppy dog.
The bar assaulted his heightened senses. Poor lighting. Sticky surfaces. The stench of cheap liquor and unwashed bodies. Blue smoke hung in the air, making his nose itch and his eyes water as the carpet underfoot tried to hitch a ride on the soles of his boots.
“Back corner,” Anson muttered under his breath.
A Zygtal with metallic scales that caught what little light existed, multiple eyes constantly shifting sat there like a little king surveying his domain. Beside him sat a Latharian, unremarkable except for a jagged scar splitting his left eyebrow.
"Anson," the Zygtal acknowledged, then gestured toward Davis. "And your colleague."
He nodded but said nothing. He'd expected a weapons deal, but the table held dataflexes rather than sample cases. He didn’t look long. They must be here about information instead. He ignored the scarred Latharian staring at him. Looking was free, even if it did piss him off.
"Let's get to business," Anson said, sliding into the booth.
Davis remained standing, leaning against the wall so he had a clear view of both the exit and their contacts, and folded his arms over his chest. The sounds of the bar shifted unpredictably. One moment, he could hear someone shuffling cards three tables away; the next, everything faded to background noise.
He shook his head, he must be more tired than he’d thought, and his thoughts went back to Mira. The shadows beneath her eyes at breakfast. Had she slept as poorly as he had? Had she been thinking about the kiss too?
"—the primary matrix should integrate with minimal adaptation," the Latharian was saying, tapping a schematic. "But the secondary harmonics will require calibration to your specific system."
