Page 81 of The Last Hope

I’m not the one who’s been heating her blood. Clawing through each word, I tell her what needs to be said. “Don’t be thinkin’ about us—”

“That’s impossible. Youknowthat’s impossible.” She groans. We both breathe heavily, more defeated, and we’ve only just begun.

My nose flares, kicking myself for doing this all backward and inside out.

Back in our barracks, Court stands pin straight, his grim concern hanging over our talk.

Franny shifts, her face twisting up. “You’d be okay with me being touched by someone else?”

A beast is gnawing on my ribs. I grimace and run my hand along my jaw. Knowing this isn’t about me. It can’t be because if they treat her right and she’s wanting, then who am I to say otherwise?

“See,” she whispers, feeling my selfish emotion that I’d rather crush and hide.

“I said nothing, little love.” I rub my hot collar. “You need to be satisfied, don’t you?”

“I’m all right.” She nods.

Is she?

“Don’t worry,” Franny says as the door behind her starts to crack. Before it opens, she whispers quickly, “There’sno onehere I’d want to touch me.” Her stomach isn’t knotting in a lie, but a bout of nerves swarms her insides.

I think she’s doing a good job of fooling herself.

NINETEEN

Franny

When I enter Stork’s barracks, he makes himself a drink. Captain’s quarters are more spacious: a liquor cabinet spans a whole dark-blue wall, thin bookshelf hugging close. Seems silly. Get sloshed and then read.

But maybe those are just two of Stork’s favorite things in no real order: read and drink.

Besides the liquor and books, I instantly spot another glaring difference. Instead of four beds, there is only one.

I assess the size. Two bodies could fit without entangling. Three bodies, and limbs will definitely be wrapped around limbs.

Toasty, I waft my damp tunic and blame the heat on the room temps. Nothing about tonight is too strange from my ordinary. Sharing a bed is common for most Fast-Trackers. Though I had my own bunk at the orphanage, I remind myself to do what I’d commonly do.

Claim the bed before someone pushes you out.

I plop down on the end, and the plush but bouncy mattress lets out an uncomfortablesqueak.I fiddle with my crisscrossed sandal straps, and as Zimmer sidles to me, we’re both zeroed in on Stork. Zimmer was the one out of theSaga 4who volunteered to spend the night here. I’m glad, seeing as I’ve already shared a bed with him at StarDust.

Stork pours amber liquid in a cylindrical glass. A little more than half full, he finishes and corks the crystal bottle. I watch him down the drink in one gulp.

Zimmer leans into me and whispers, “He’s sloshed.”

Still, Stork is far from stumbling or slurring. He carries the same cocky poise that hoists his lip and tips his head, but his gaze is unreadable. All the liquor seems to do is mask a pained sorrow that swims in his blue eyes.

My brows knit and I whisper back, “I think he’s in mourning.” And he’s coping poorly, numbing his grief with booze.

“Whatever mourning is, he’s doing a bang-up job of it.” Zimmer grips the back of his black shirt and yanks the fabric off his head.

I hone in on his casual movements and half-naked body.

My knees knock together, breath shallow. After dodging my deathday, I had no time to think of doing anything at night other thansleep.Now should be no different.

But I can’t halt my wandering gaze from traveling down his tall, lanky build. Shaggy brown hair shrouds his eyes while he undoes a button of his slacks, carefree and unrestrained. He pushes hair out of his face, and I catch him skimming my cheeks and bare legs.

Bad heat brews, and I chew on the corner of my lip to cool off and I continue unbuckling my footwear. Quickly diverting my gaze to Stork.