Page 28 of Galactic Sentinels: Vol 2
But just behind her, a Nalgou’s head jerks up. It’s seen her. A loud bellow echoes through the plains.
Another, deeper one follows. The alpha.
The herd charges—straight at her.
She’s too far from the trees. There’s no way she makes it out in time.
I sprint toward her, heart hammering, lungs burning. I spot a depression in the ground. I grab her wrist and yank her down into it, covering her with my body just as the beasts thunder overhead.
Hooves slam into my back—once, twice, a third time—pain exploding through me. I can’t move. I grit my teeth and endure it, focused only on keeping her safe.
Eventually, the stampede fades, the ground quieting.
I gasp for breath, every rib screaming.
We made it. Barely.
I crawl off her, grimacing. My Confed suit saved me from cuts, but I’m definitely covered in bruises.
“I’m so sorry!” Sam says immediately. “They’ve never reacted like that before.”
“Maybe your dad’s horn-harvesting made them start seeing humans as a threat,” I reply.
“You’re right. I didn’t think of that. Are you hurt?”
“It’s fine,” I lie through gritted teeth. “We’ll check with the scanner.”
“Oops. I dropped it when they started charging,” she admits.
We retrace our steps, scanning the ground. My head spins, vision blurring.
“Oops,” she says again, holding up the shattered remains of my scanner.
I don’t have the energy to respond.
I stumble toward the aeropod, knowing if I pass out here, she’ll never get me home.
In a fog, I climb aboard. My ears ring, nausea swells.
At least in either scenario, I won’t have to deal with her maddening curves anymore.
I close my eyes and surrender to the darkness.
When I wake up, I’m lying on a soft mattress with Logan’s concerned face hovering above me.
“Well, look who’s back! You don’t mess around when it comes to vacationing, do you? Two-hour nap. Not bad,” he jokes.
I glance around and realize I’m in Sam’s room. Her scent is all over the bed.
Logan and I usually sleep in the living room, but I guess this was the only spot available.
“Now that you’re awake, help me get you out of that suit,” Logan says. “Sam told me everything. I checked you over—nothing broken, but three cracked ribs and some nasty bruises. She’s in the kitchen making a balm for your back. I had to talk her down from cutting your suit open with scissors.”
Thank God. Confed suits have saved our lives more times than I can count. No way I’m letting one get trashed.
Reluctantly, I help him peel it off, wincing with every move. But that pain is nothing compared to what I feel when Sam comes back and starts rubbing balm onto my back.
Every touch is a caress.
