Page 75 of Fated in A Time of War
It’s not a command. Not an order.
It’s a plea.
I’ve never heard him plead before.
I grit my teeth and haul the girl faster.
He reaches us just as another mortar slams into the ridge behind. Debris rains down. His body covers ours before I even register the movement. He shields me with that damn broad frame like it’s instinct. Like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.
When the dust settles, I’m still alive. The girl’s still breathing. Krall’s crouched over us, shoulders heaving.
“You trying to get yourself killed?” he growls.
“You first,” I snap back, heart jackhammering.
His hands hover at my sides, checking for blood.
“Stop it,” I mutter, brushing him off. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“You’re not my—” I pause. Catch myself. Swallow the next word.Commander.
He sees it in my face. And something shifts behind his eyes.
A different kind of urgency.
Not battle-born.
Heart-born.
The girl whimpers, pulling us both back to reality.
We carry her to the med zone together, Krall lifting most of her weight. When we drop her on the cot, a nurse takes over, and I press a hand to my thigh—muscle spasming from strain.
Krall doesn’t move far. Just waits until the next explosion.
And then he grabs my hand.
“Come on,” he says.
We duck behind one of the makeshift barricades near the west flank. Half a wall of dented sheet metal and sandbags that smell like mildew and piss. I lean against it, chest heaving.
He’s watching me. Not the perimeter.
Me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“No,” I answer honestly.
He grunts. “Good. Me neither.”
I laugh, and it’s ugly and sharp, but it cuts through the noise, even if just for a second.
I look at him.
He’s crouched beside me, one hand on his weapon, the other still curled near mine. Dust streaks his cheek. Blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes—those impossible, deep-shadowed, war-hungry eyes—meet mine.
