Page 59 of The Last Hope
The mission to retrieve a baby on Saltare-1—their best bet is us helping them.
I owe these people, and it’ll be hard for me to sayno.That suffocating guilt may not fester in Court or Mykal, but they’ll share in mine. I hate that too.
“We already agreed to the retrieval operation,” Court says suddenly, so resolute that my lips part a little. Mykal carries the same unbending emotion, loyal to this decision. “We didn’t need to see your admirals die.”
“Executed,” Stork amends with a swig, most of us frowning at the new word and at his drinking.
Mykal nods to Stork. “How dangerous is this op-thing gonna be?”
He wipes his wet lip with his thumb. “First, you’ll need training. Then, we’ll see.”
THIRTEEN
Mykal
After some fussing, Franny agrees to bathe first. Our cozy barracks have some kind of planetary appeal that I don’t find as glamorous as Court or Franny.
Room shaped like a diamond, four long beds hug each wall. Covered with round pillows and constellation-patterned blankets, too heavy for the suffocating temps. I’d be doing everything in the nude if I could.
Spinning stools surround a circular table in the middle. And lastly, a frosted sliding door conceals a tiny bathroom.
No portholes. No breeze or hoot of an animal.
I only hear droplets hitting tile.
Shower.
What a strange thing. Lukewarm water drizzles on my biceps, steam swathing my body. I roll my shoulders, not liking the sensation.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to start feeling things I shouldn’t be feeling. Like Franny’s hands journeying over her curves. Privacy is still hard to give with this damned link.
Mind drifting, I struggle.
Franny is tentative at first. Not sticking her head beneath the pour, and as soon as she steps under, water drenches my hair. Soaks my face.
I pinch my eyes.
Bed. Bed.
I’m on one of the beds, round pillow chucked to the floor tomake room for Court. His nose is deep in the sameMythsbook while sitting next to me. Our legs stretched out appreciatively.
Without shifting his eyes, he curves his arm around my broad frame. I’m swept up wholly into his senses. Dry. Water gone. His pulse thumps heartily against mine.
Toothpick between my teeth, I smile lopsidedly at him.
He’s not looking. But his breath hitches. So he feels me as strongly as I do him.
Shirtless, we’re both only in linen night skirts. Too hot for much else. Ink on his thighs and an Altian star tattoo tangled in the thick scars over his heart—he already looks like he’s been through war. And I’m not excited to let him face another.
But I vow to protect him. To protect both of them from death. No matter where we go together.
For Court, he’s put more pressure on himself with thewherepart. He’s worried about leading us in a nasty direction.
It’s why I can’t steal his gaze from those damned pages.
“How’s the book going?” I ask, shreds of fabric on my lap. I ripped up one of the blankets earlier and found a sewing kit with the cigarettes, and I’ve been stitching a pair of slacks.
Tunics look silly as can be. Like potato sacks.
