Page 65 of Dustwalker

“I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about most of the time.” The corner of her mouth lifted. She was…teasing him. “Go on and clean yourself up.”

“Lara—”

“Not yet.”

“I have to?—”

“Go clean up, and then you can tell me allthe details. I’ve been bored out of my fucking skull since you left, and now my fingertips are sore on top of it.”

She rose and stretched, the hem of her light blue T-shirt rising high enough to allow him a glimpse of the pale skin of her stomach before she turned and walked up the stairs. From below, Ronin watched the gentle sway of her hips, which were hugged by her cargo pants. He should’ve demanded she stop and listen to him.

Instead, Ronin followed her. His brow plates lowered. Rather than turn toward her room, she strolled into his, moving directly toward his bed. He froze in the doorway. What was she doing? And why was his desire for her amplifying despite what he needed to tell her?

Lara stopped in front of the chest and set the pistol down before approaching him. “It’s not very good, but I made you something. It’s on your bed.” She raised her fingers to show him the tiny cuts on their tips. “I bled for it, so you’d better at least pretendto appreciate it.”

She slipped past him. Unable to form a coherent sentence, Ronin turned his head and watched her walk to her room.

Why can’t I just tell her?

Death was part of the world. Always had been, always would be. How many corpses, whether flesh or metal, had he seen since awakening?

Tabitha and the synth made 115,299. Most had already been dead or deactivated long before Ronin found them, but they remained in his memory as constant reminders of the world’s unforgiving nature.

He knew there were more buried in the Dust and hidden in the ruins, knew there were more from before the Blackout, trapped in his inaccessible memories. Millions upon millions more.

Entering his bedroom, Ronin turned on the light and undressed. His fingers were stiff as he unfastened zippers and buttons, and his optics wandered, first to the pistol on the chest, then to the bed. The blankets were rumpled as though Lara had been atop them while he was gone, and a shirt made from the thick gray fabric he’d given her before leaving lay atop one of the pillows.

Ronin brushed his hand over the wrinkles in the bedding. What had she looked like on his bed? How might it have felt to be on it withher? His processors could composite her image into the scene, but it could never compare to reality.

No. Not now.

Not while he was covered in dust and carrying such devastating news.

He stepped into the adjoining bathroom and showered, wiping the dirt from his skin with a cloth. Steam billowed around him as he scrubbed beneath his fingernails. His sensors registered the water temperature at one hundred ten degrees Fahrenheit, but it was just another number.

Before he’d met Lara, Tabitha also would’ve been another number—115,298.

Lara was the key, she was the reason Tabitha was more than a number, more than a nameless face. Because of Lara, Ronin could see Tabitha as a person. As someone who had loved and been loved in return. Someone who’s death meant something.

Every death did, whether he understood that meaning or not.

Turning off the water, he stepped out of the tub, dabbing moisture from his skin and rubbing his hair dry with a towel. Ronin stopped in front of the mirror and wiped away the condensation. His face was unchanged. No indication of grief, no sign of the hardships the Dust had wrought upon him.

He walked into the bedroom and pulled on a clean pair of pants before picking up the shirt Lara had made. It sported inconsistent stitching, uneven cuts, and a miniscule stain near the left shoulder thatwas likely her blood. Somehow, those flaws made the shirt more appealing.

“So, tell me,” Lara said.

Ronin turned his head to see her enter the bedroom through the open door. Her eyes ran over his bare torso, lingering low on his abdomen before lifting to focus on his optics. There was a tinge of pink on her cheeks now.

She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back with her hands propped on the bed behind her. Her shirt pulled snug around her breasts, drawing his optics to the points of her nipples. “Your bag looked full. You find anything good?”

“I did,” he replied, hating that it was the truth, hating how his systems were reacting to her body in this moment. “What’s in the bag doesn’t matter, Lara.”

“So…? Don’t keep me in suspense! Tell me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so serious, which says a lot because it’s not like you had much of a sense of humor to begin with.”

Folding the shirt, he laid it atop the chest and moved to stand in front of her. She arched a brow when he crouched to her eye-level.

“You’re making this kinda weird, Ronin.”