And she was smiling up at Gray like he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
A touch just beneath his ear activated his comms. “Cara?”
His data courier’s voice came immediately. “Sir?”
“You can finish cataloging security footage later. I need you up here.”
“On my way.”
He disengaged his comms and went back to staring at the gift in front of him.
Life was presenting Richter with a second chance. This time, he wouldn’t move recklessly. He’d be deliberate. Once he had Marjorie Chevalier in his grasp again, he wouldn’t stop until he’d peeled every last secret from her precocious brain.
Then the Board could cross him at their peril.
November 13th, 2078
Marjorie is a ghost.
Four months of dissociation training has changed her. She no longer laughs. She rarely smiles. She’s stopped studying, stopped learning, stopped feeling. Her gaze barely focuses. She listens, remembers, and repeats. The perfect data courier.
I hate what they’ve done to her. I hate myself for allowing it.
Never again.
The Recovered Journal of Birgitte Skovgaard
TWENTY
Gray hovered outside Maya’s bedroom door, turning the worn hardcover book over and over in his hands. He wasn’t exactly invited—hell, Maya might not even be home—but he hadn’t seen her since breakfast, and he’d made her a promise.
He’d spent the day being poked and prodded and scanned by Mace, who’d taken his vow to study Gray’s condition as seriously as he took everything. It left Gray with a feeling that wasn’t quite hope but was far more comfortable than the fear that had ridden him the past couple of days. Peace, maybe. An understanding of his fate, if not an acceptance of it.
For now, that was good enough.
Finally, he rapped on the door.
It opened after only a few seconds. Maya stood on the other side, in tiny cotton shorts and a tank top with one strap drooping down her shoulder. She blinked, clearly surprised to see him, but before he could speak, her gaze dropped to the book. A sudden, brilliant smile lit her face. “Did you come to read to me?”
“I figured a promise is a promise. The Call of the Wild.” He held up the battered book. “I found it in your library.”
She stepped aside, pulling the door wider in silent invitation.
He’d been in her room before, but he’d never really looked at it. It had just seemed to fit her, possessing a sense of rightness that hadn’t merited further consideration.
Bookshelves lined the walls, meticulously hung, arrow-straight and evenly spaced. But that was where the regimented order ended. Those shelves overflowed with items—books and little boxes, mementos and folded paper figurines. The rest of the wall space was covered with posters and other hangings, as brightly colored as the lamps with their stained-glass shades.
A large desk sat against the far wall, covered with tablets and components and other bits of tech. And beside it …
The bed, made but a little rumpled, as if she’d been lying on top of the covers. Gray gestured to it, stifling the urge to clear his throat. “Can I sit?”
“Sure.” Maya slid onto the head, her legs crossed and her back resting against the wall. She dragged one of the colorful pillows into her lap and smiled shyly. “Sorry, it’s kind of a mess.”
“It’s nice. I have a bunk, with all my stuff in a trunk at the foot of it.”
“Really?” She hugged the pillow to her chest and studied him. “Because y’all are still working on stuff over there? Or is that how you like it?”
“Yes, and kind of?” He shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “Kids in the home would take anything that wasn’t nailed down. You learned fast not to get too attached to stuff. And then there’s the Protectorate—they’re not exactly known for their luxurious accommodations.” He shrugged again. “It’s a habit, I guess.”
Maya reached out to touch his hand, her fingers soft. “You’ve never really had a space of your own, have you?”
“Bouncing from an orphanage to basic training doesn’t leave a lot of room for it.”
“No, I guess not.”
Her pity hurt—not because he couldn’t take it, but because he hadn’t come here to drag her down.
So he lifted the book. “Shall we?”
They stretched out on her bed, Gray with his back propped against the headboard and Maya curled up by his side.
“Is this okay?” she asked softly.
“Yeah.” But words weren’t enough, not for this, so he pulled her closer, until she was nestled against him, her body flush against his side. “Better?”
Her eyes gleamed with an affection that tightened his chest and the rest of him, all at the same time. “Better.”
He cleared his throat, opened the book to the first page, and began to read. “‘Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal…’”
Maya made a soft noise of contentment and practically melted into him. He smiled through the next few paragraphs and shook his head a little. He knew she liked his voice, but he hadn’t realized how affected she was by it.
He’d have to read to her more often.
By the time he finished the first chapter and prepared to move on to the next, Maya had practically molded herself to him, her heat warming him even through their clothes. His voice grew huskier, then flat-out hoarse, and he had to keep clearing his throat.
All the while, Maya’s face tilted more toward his, up and up until her parted lips presented an unmistakable invitation.
“Maya,” he groaned.
She lifted her hands to frame his face. “Gray.”
He covered her hands with his, intending to pull them away from his face, but somehow, they just sat there like that. “Maya, we need to talk.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “I know.”
“Do you?”
She wet her lips. “I know people, Gray. People who owe me favors. I can reach out…”
His stomach twisted. “No. If that’s what you’re telling yourself, we can’t do this. I need to know that you get it, Maya. That you understand my situation.”
Her brown eyes seemed huge, her expression on the knife-edge between hope and hurt. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Mace. Does he … What does he think?”
He wished he had better words to give her, but this was the truth. His truth. Theirs. “I’m dying. He can give me more time, but that’s it. I’m sorry, but … he can’t fix me.”
She was silent for a long time, her hands still beneath his. Her gaze roamed his face, before her eyes locked with his again. “What do you want for the time you have left?”
He wanted her—and if he said as much, she would fall recklessly into his arms. And it didn’t seem right to want anything, anyone, not when he’d be gone so soon. He felt like a thief, snatching at things that weren’t destined for his grasp.