Page 29

Roslyn

Zan collapses into me, and I never really thought I had such a thing for big, muscled dudes, but there’s something so fucking delicious about his weight pressing down on top of me. The bulk of him, the comfort of being anchored right here with him, draws a long, satisfied sigh from my chest. I wrap my arms around him, squeeze my thighs tighter where they rest on his hips, and his rumble of satisfaction vibrates all the way through me.

We stay that way for a long time. Hearts beating in time, breath slowly returning to normal, bathed in moonlight and boneless with pleasure and exhaustion.

Zan has his elbows resting on either side of me, keeping himself from crushing me completely, but I don’t think I’d mind if he did. He could be my blanket any time, and I’d be just as deliriously comfortable as I am right now.

When he shifts on top of me like he’s about to get up, I grumble a protest, but he just presses a kiss to the middle of my forehead.

“Stay here,” Zan rumbles, and I don’t have any spare brain cells left to argue as he rolls out of bed and disappears into the bathroom.

When he returns, he’s got a damp washcloth in his hand, and goes immediately to work cleaning me up.

I should probably be more embarrassed.

I’ve never really been one to linger after sex, to cuddle, to stick around and do the whole cute and sappy bonding thing.

Mostly because the vast, vast majority of my sexual encounters have been hookups or short-lived flings. And somewhere in the back of my brain a little voice pipes up to remind me that’s exactly what this is, too.

Casual. A fling.

Not the kind of thing where I should let him clean his come off me while I lay here languid and satisfied, so totally blissed out that I couldn’t conjure all my walls and layers of protection even if I wanted to.

But that’s exactly what I do. I melt into the pillows and let Zan clean me. I don’t try to stop him or offer any protest at all.

When the edge of the cloth brushes over my inner thigh, though, I gasp, surprised at the small sting.

A rough, disgruntled noise lodges in the back of Zan’s throat. “I hurt you. My skin, it’s too rough. I shouldn’t have—”

“I’m fine,” I assure him, leaning up on my elbows. My breath catches when I find him wedged in between my thighs, trailing his fingertips over the pink, slightly tender skin there.

“Ros,” he grumbles. “Look at you. Don’t tell me—”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Reaching a hand down, I thread my fingers into his hair and make him look at me. “Really.”

I’m pinned in place by swirling silver. Harsh, concerned, not at all how I want him to be looking right now. I drag my nails over his scalp until he closes his eyes and sighs.

“I still should have been more careful.”

I huff a laugh. “Seriously, Zan. No complaints from me.”

He grumbles a bit more, but swipes the cloth over his cock and tucks it away before he joins me back in bed.

It feels natural as breathing to roll onto his chest when he settles beside me. To drape myself across him and find the spot just under his jaw where my head slots in like a puzzle piece. To nestle there while he wraps an arm around my back and starts rubbing slow, gentle strokes over my skin.

Claws trailing lightly over me, a deep rumble of satisfaction echoing in his chest, I almost forget.

I almost fail to notice that hand of his skating higher, up my back to my shoulder blade and the tangle of scars and ink there.

I stiffen beneath his touch, and Zan freezes.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright. It doesn’t hurt. I just… it’s just weird, you know?”

A soft, understanding noise breaks in the back of his throat. He moves his hand like he’s going to pull it away, but something in me can’t let that happen.

“Don’t.”

He freezes again, pulling back a few inches so he can meet my gaze.

“I…” I begin, throat tight. “You can… touch me. There. I… I don’t mind.”

Maybe I should be more direct.

Maybe leaving the decision up to him is the coward’s way out.

I’m just about to speak again, try to figure out exactly how to say it, when the soft brush of Zan’s fingers over my scars steals the breath right out of my chest.

So light, that touch. Just a whisper of skin on skin. Experimental, tentative, like he’s not sure how much is okay.

“If you ever want to talk about it, I’m more than happy to listen.”

The offer is gentle, given in a way that lets me know it would be alright if I didn’t answer.

And I don’t, at least not right away.

For a few long moments, I simply concentrate on the brush of his fingers against my skin. I let myself feel each touch, breathing through the slight pulse of panic that rises in my throat over having his full attention on my scars.

I’m not ashamed of the scars, or the tattoos which now cover them, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to have them so exposed. Memories of the day I got them rise to the surface, though for once it doesn’t feel like too much.

With a Revexoran mercenary’s touch—a male who’s likely seen the same kind of violence that gave me these marks—all that panic is kept at bay. It doesn’t overwhelm me. It doesn’t drown me. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m able to breathe through it.

“We were supporting the Jurvians in a skirmish with the Vrosri,” I say finally. “They attacked a Sol Alliance fortification in the Merixir system.”

“You were injured,” he says, a soft nudge to keep me talking.

I nod my head where it lays against his chest. “I was the only one. My unit was in a supply depot on some little backwater outpost moon. I was working on the defense monitoring systems that night, and had enough time to raise the alarm and help everyone get out in time.”

Zan makes a low noise of understanding in the back of his throat. “And this was the price you paid for ensuring others made it out alive.”

“A piece of burning ceiling,” I murmur. “I still see the sparks sometimes when I’m dreaming.”

For a few long moments, there are no words at all. There’s only the rasp of our shared breath, the warmth of Zan’s touch.

More memories swirl.

Memories of panic and pain. Memories of clawing desperation and the sweet relief of waking on the medic evac ship and learning they all were okay.

Memories of a hospital. Memories of being honorably discharged and sent home to Severin, of never seeing all those fellow soldiers—all those friends— again.

“There are ways to fix damage like this,” Zan says softly.

It’s not a question, but I answer him anyway. “There are, but it wasn’t exactly a priority for the Sol Alliance’s medical team. They patched up the internal damage and sent me on my way.”

“And when you came here? It is my understanding that Mate Match offers contestants cosmetic procedures as a perk of their participation in the show.”

The question stirs deeper waters than I’m comfortable diving into right now, so I just shrug. “They offered. I declined.”

The way the Mate Match docs explained it, there would have been no saving the ink if I wanted to get rid of the scars.

I got the tattoos after I was discharged from service, in the dark, awful months waiting to come here and start searching for Savvie. The idea of wiping them all away, of letting the Mate Match team employ nanotech to leave my skin clear and unblemished, like I’d never been injured at all…

It wasn’t something I could stomach.

The tattoos were my way of claiming the scars. They were my way of painting the evidence of my worst chapter with the Sol Alliance with all the beauty I got to experience because of my enlistment. The galaxies and constellations, the flora and breathtaking landscapes, all the sights that still seem impossible when I remember them.

It wasn’t all bad. It can’t have been all bad.

I’m not sure how I could handle it if it was.

“A warrior’s marks,” Zan murmurs, startling me out of my thoughts. “You wear them proudly.”

My throat tightens and tears sting at the backs of my eyes. “I’m not a warrior.”

“Are you not? You left your home to fight alongside your people and provide for those you love. You put your life in danger to save your fellow soldiers. You are a warrior, Roslyn. The best kind of warrior.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to keep protesting.

I’m no warrior.

I was just a kid who had no better options, grasping at the only way out of the bleak reality of my life.

I was terrified most of the time—terrified I’d get killed, terrified I wouldn’t be able to send enough money home for Savvie to be okay.

I’m still terrified.

Aren’t warriors supposed to be strong, fearless, brave?

But Zan holds my gaze, uncompromising, and I almost believe him. I swallow my protests and lay my head back down.

“Sleep, warrior.” Zan’s voice is a low rasp, a gentle rumble in the darkness. “Rest now.”

We shift on the bed, an easy slide of limbs and bodies until I’m on my side and he’s behind me. His muscled, armored, unbelievably gentle body curls around me, arms holding me tight.

He keeps touching me, keeps brushing his fingers over my scars and ink in slow, soothing strokes. And when the touch of his hand is replaced by the soft press of his lips and the cool ghost of his breath against my skin, a tight lump of emotion lodges itself in my throat.

I fall asleep that way, held close and comforted by a mercenary’s touch.