Page 7 of Double Bind (Cosmic Mates #6)

“You two seemed to be getting along at dinner last night.”

Marshall was about to dig into the box lunch the shop foreman had ordered from the mess hall when Bragg plunked down next to him. “Yeah.” He bit into his sandwich. Chewed. Horniger, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“She’s not mad at you anymore?”

“No.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Yeah. Don’t you have work to do?” He didn’t care to discuss his personal business. Especially when his feelings were confused. He didn’t know what he felt.

“It’s lunchtime,” Bragg replied and opened his box. “Job seems like it will be all right.” Perhaps getting the hint, he switched to an innocuous topic.

“Yeah.” He’d discovered he enjoyed working with his hands, building practical items people needed, contributing to society instead of undermining it. “I think I’m going to like building furniture.”

After a tutorial on construction, a demo on the machines, and an extended safety lecture, the shop foreman had started them building tables. Refuge had plans for another settlement requiring furniture, plus the shop had gotten an order from a neighboring village. There were two workers out, an alien woman who had the day off, and an alien man recuperating after severing his tail on the saw.

“As long as we don’t cut anything off,” Bragg added.

He chuckled. “Yeah.” He finished off the sandwich, washing it down with a slug from his canteen. The water tasted sweet here, not like chemicals. He loved the freedom of having total control over his work, nobody monitoring his every move. He didn’t have to worry a casual comment would be misconstrued and used against him. If he screwed up—nobody died. Unless he accidentally cut off a critical body part. He stifled a grin. Poor guy.

“What’s so funny?

“Just appreciating the refreshing change from Dark Ops.”

“That is something to smile about.” Bragg sniffed his sandwich and then took a big bite.

Maybe now, he’ll stop talking and let me finish lunch in peace. He peered into his box. There was some sort of fruit in there, too. He bit into it. Sweet. Nice.

Ah, the simple life. Some of the tools they used he’d never seen outside of a museum.

He wondered how Amity liked her job. Occupations at Artisan’s Loft shared a commonality—they employed ancient crafts using archaic equipment to produce practical articles. Faith had always done that with her pottery, but handicrafts were new to the rest of them. Would Amity love weaving or hate it?

He had enjoyed their conversation before and after dinner. Even more than on their date. Last night had been honest. He hadn’t been faking. He’d been himself.

It had felt good, right, to sleep with her. Literally, not euphemistically, yet it had been surprisingly intimate. He’d never spent the entire night with a woman ever. He’d always made himself scarce after the deed. After Amity had fallen asleep, he’d lain awake feeling her warmth, inhaling her scent, listening to her breathe. Did she know she snored? He smiled.

“You sure are grinning a lot,” Bragg said. “It’s not like you.”

He chuckled then. “Maybe it’s a new me.”

“Dark Ops never gave us much to smile about.”

“True that.”

“Thanks,” Bragg said. “I don’t remember if I said that or not.” Thanks for getting him sanctuary on Refuge, he meant.

“You didn’t.” Marshall’s lip twitched. “But, you’re welcome.”

“Why me?”

“Somebody had to save you from yourself.” He did not wish to get into the weeds of effusive emotion. A simple thank-you sufficed. “I was your commanding officer.”

“You had a lot of men under your command.”

“They weren’t all clones.” He actually had no idea how many were. He had his suspicions about several of them but didn’t know. Except for Bragg, whom he’d seen mature in the gestation tank. Bragg, who’d fallen in love with his progenitor’s widow. Who would have done anything for her, even if it got him nothing.

He’d convinced himself he’d told Bragg Faith was looking to remarry to squelch the man’s interest, but what if the opposite was true? What if subconsciously he’d wished to see love and loyalty succeed? When he’d accidentally-on-purpose let it slip that Faith had joined Cosmic Mates, Bragg had taken after her like a bullet. Hadn’t he really known that would occur?

Marshall wondered if he had it in him to care that deeply or if two decades of conscription to Dark Ops had drained him of all but shallow, tepid emotion. He liked Amity. His regard for her had grown. He was attracted to her. He enjoyed her company. If he had to get stuck with a wife, she was probably as good as any. Actually, he couldn’t think of a single female he would have preferred.

But did he have the capacity to love her? It bothered him he might be incapable of loving anybody.

Still, he was glad her Cosmic Mates date with the Nagarian had been a bust. If it had worked out, he wouldn’t have been able to marry her. “This year might not be so bad,” he said.

Bragg’s face split into a grin.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.” The smile broadened.

“Fuck you and what you think you know,” Marshall said good-naturedly.

* * * *

Amity lay in bed, her back to him for privacy, as he exited the lavatory. He always left the slider open; it made squeezing himself into the tight space tolerable. She rolled to face him. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“Fine.”

She scooted over, and he slid into bed. He’d been looking forward to being alone with her, all day. As they had the previous night, their friends had joined them for dinner. He had no problems with them, per se, but four was a crowd.

“How did your day go? You didn’t say much over dinner,” she said.

“How could I? You ladies did most of the talking.” The two women had chattered like magpies, comparing notes.

“Because you weren’t saying anything! I was trying to fill the awkward silence.”

“Was it awkward?” he asked, concerned.

“No, I’m teasing. I’m sorry if we monopolized the conversation.”

“I was teasing you . I didn’t mind. I got all the deets without having to ask.” His lips twitched with amusement.

She yawned. “Sorry,” she said, patting her mouth.

“You’re tired. I’m keeping you awake.”

“No, no. I want to hear about your day.” She stretched, and her toes brushed his shin.

“Your feet are freezing!”

“The floor is cold.”

He ran hot—one reason why he slept only in briefs. “Let me warm you up.”

He pulled her close, and she turned so that they spooned. It happened automatically, comfortably, perfectly. Like they were meant to be. “Ooh, you’re warm.” She wiggled against him, and he stifled a groan as his cock took notice. Icy toes touched his shins again, and she jerked them away. “Sorry.”

“Feel free to warm your feet on my legs,” he offered.

She rubbed her feet on his shins.

He let out a small mock scream.

She giggled. “You asked for it.”

“I did.”

“You are chivalrous.”

Nobody had ever called him that before. Soft hair tickled his nose and filled his head with her scent.

“So, tell me about your day. How was woodworking?”

“Not bad.”

“You’re a man of many words. Two, to be exact.”

He didn’t engage in long monologues. If he had something to say, he said it in the most economical way possible. He’d been much more verbose that evening at the bistro, but then he’d been playing the suitor, trying to win her confidence.

Now, he was just himself. For her sake, he expanded on his comment. “Work was pleasant. The day went fast. I didn’t cut anything off that shouldn’t be cut off.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have a guy out who cut his tail off on the table saw.”

“That’s terrible. You’d better be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Nobody had ever expressed concern for his well-being before. His chest tightened. In Dark Ops, they said, keep your head down , which meant, don’t get hurt because you’ll fuck up the mission. He had fucked up when claustrophobia kicked in, which led to reassignment to a supervisory position, i.e. a desk job.

“I will. They put me to work making tables.”

“Like the one we have here in the cabin.”

“Yeah, some bigger. Next week, I’m supposed to deliver an order to one of the villages.”

“Fair Shake?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Darmaine is sending an order of blankets there, too.”

“Any blankets you made?” he asked.

“Well, not yet!” She laughed. “Maybe one or two by next week. Mine will be the lumpy ones.”

“My tables will be the ones with one leg shorter than the others.”

She giggled again. “We’ll both be lucky to keep our jobs, although Darmaine is desperate for help, so she might cut me a little slack.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your work,” he said, having heard about it at dinner.

“I am. I’m glad yours is okay.”

“Better than okay. I might have downplayed that a little,” he said. “Your feet are warm now.” Her fragrant hair tickled his nose. Rounded buttocks rested against his groin; his forearm pressed against her generous breasts. If he moved his hand…

“Oh yeah. I’m good now.” She scooted away.

Dammit. He hadn’t been hinting she should move away—he’d been making conversation. That’s why he didn’t talk a lot! He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Good night, Marshall.”

Dammit. “Good night.”

She rolled away. He lay awake, listening to her soft exhalation, listening to her breathing grow quieter and quieter.

“Amity? Are you awake?” he whispered.

There was no reply, and he knew she’d fallen asleep.

“I’m glad I married you,” he murmured.