Page 124 of Rogue Mission
My mind stutters as Camile’s face flashes through my awareness. I can’t stop picturing what she’s enduring. What it must be to know your love has been taken hostage.
“I know,” I breathe, a shiver skating down my arms. “You’re pretty calm for that. I can’t stop worrying about them.”
“Not really calm.” His hand slides through my hair, settles at the nape. Grounding me.
He’s quiet for a beat then rasps, “I’ve just got more practice at bottling it up. Using it. Panic burns important energy.”
No lie. It’s hard to believe I’m upright.
“You’re not kidding.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m going to sleep for a week.”
“Unfortunately we have to go soon.”
“Good thing I don’t have much to pack,” I say lightly, because the alternative is spiraling into terror which I’ve barely managed to avoid.
“Just need to grab my trusty can of bear spray and I’ll take the leaf. I’m traveling light.”
A surprised warmth crosses his face.
He picks up the leaf from the table and turns it between his fingers, angling the edge toward the light over the sink. “What makes this one special?”
“Oh, it just caught my eye.” The answer is automatic and true. “I’d love to look at its cells under a microscope—check the vein pattern and any fungal hitchhikers.”
“Walton might have one around here.” He huffs a quiet almost-laugh. “Who knows what he’s stashed for his line of work.”
“It’s okay. Not important.” I exhale into his chest. “Habit. My brain is too curious about things even when it shouldn’t be.”
His fingers thread through my hair again, slower this time. “When this is done, I want to learn all the things that make you tick.”
“Deal. And likewise. I need to know what makes you tick, besides tying me up.”
He groans. “That definitely makes something tick.”
I steal a quick kiss and slide off his lap just as the satellite phone on the table rings. It’s an ugly buzz that slices the moment in half.
“It’s Marshall,” Justice says, tight and worried after he checks the number.
He answers, and for a beat he only listens, scowl deepening, shoulders tightening like a bow drawing back before release.
Whoever’s on the other end talks fast, a clip to the garbled words.
My eardrums squeeze in protest from straining to listen.
Justice says nothing back. After a few minutes, he pivots and strides outside with the phone to his ear.
The kitchen exhales and then inhales too sharply. The silence left behind crackles with a charged emptiness.
I’ve only known him a few days, but he has never once walked away to take a call.
Whatever Marshall just said is bad enough that Justice needs cold air and a wider horizon to hold it.
I move to the window, the pull too strong to ignore, watching as he paces on the hard-packed earth.
He cuts circuits, tracing and retracing, boots scuffing the same turns.
All the while Justice keeps gripping the back of his neck, like he’s trying to scrub bad news out of the muscle.
What if something happened to Beast?
