Page 6 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

B lue’s cave smelled of sage, wood smoke, and an absurd amount of cumin. It shouldn’t have felt safe, but somehow it did—like being swallowed up by the earth and held tight by something ancient.

She barked orders like a medic from my worst nightmares—part mother, part executioner. There was no tenderness in her movements, but there was purpose. Precision. A war-taught ruthlessness that said she’d seen worse and lived to curse about it.

Chuck went first. She poured my found whiskey directly into the wound in his side while he howled like a demon. He cursed in three languages, maybe four. Blue didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Then she turned to Joel, resetting his dislocated knee like she was folding laundry. He bit down on a stick and promised to haunt me in the afterlife.

I sat in the shadows, ribs screaming with every breath, one hand stroking Bear’s torn ear while I pretended I wasn’t falling apart. I should’ve been sleeping. God knew I needed it. But I couldn’t stop watching her.

The way she moved—efficient, unforgiving, like someone who’d long ago given up the luxury of gentleness. But there was something under it. Something soft buried so deep she’d rather bleed than show it.

Then those storm-grey eyes landed on me.

“Your turn, Faron.”

“I’m fine.”

She snorted. “Your ribs look like a roadmap of stupid decisions. Shirt off. Now.”

Even Bear betrayed me, nuzzling my side and exposing the darkest bruise I’d been ignoring. Blue knelt between my knees, ripped my shirt open without hesitation. Like I belonged to her. Like she didn’t have time to ask permission.

The burn of whiskey on my broken skin didn’t come close to the burn of her breath on my jaw.

“Damn hero complex,” she muttered, wrapping gauze around my ribs with more care than she wanted to admit. “You ever think about not being everyone’s savior?”

“Once. Didn’t like it.”

That made her laugh—an actual laugh, unguarded and bright. It crinkled the corners of her eyes and for a breathless second, she wasn’t the woman hardened by war. She was just Blue—the girl who once signed up to save the world and lost herself in the process.

“Idiot,” she said softly.

“You’re mean,” I shot back.

She leaned in, too close, all sage and sweat and something I hadn’t let myself want in a long damn time. Her eyes dipped to my mouth. Like maybe she was about to remember how it felt.

“This doesn’t change anything, Lightfoot.”

But she didn’t pull away.

Not right away.

When she did, it felt like ripping gauze from raw flesh. She stood fast, armored herself with her medic’s kit, and turned away like the moment hadn’t cracked the air in two.

“Sleep. Dawn comes fast. And so does extraction.”

I caught her wrist. Her pulse jumped beneath my thumb—fierce, wild, alive.

“Thank you, Blue Davis. Now tell me... why the fuck are you still here?”

She didn’t answer.

Just slipped into the night like a shadow, leaving me wide awake, aching, with Bear at my side and the taste of her name on my tongue.