lifted his shoulders in a languid shrug. “Go ahead and grab the bathroom, if you’re ready to turn in. It’s going to be a few moments before I feel like moving.”
Own it and go on.
Mariska squared her shoulders and found her determination, and walked away.
* * *
Jet curled up in a hollow between two scruffy, twisted little oaks, tucking her nose over her tail and perfectly happy to be out in the night. She had some curiosities left from the day—wondering what had put that look in Ruger’s eyes, and seeing the faint and atypical worry in Ian as he disembarked, glancing over at Mariska.
She’d drift in close enough in the morning to catch Ian—to interrogate him with wolfish eyes and whatever persistence she needed. Tonight, she left them alone to absorb whatever it was that they’d found.
Besides, they still carried the faint stench of Core, whether they knew it or not. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
She flicked her ears forward, moving nothing else but her eyes—looking down on the cabin she could have been sharing with Ruger and Mariska, if she’d wanted. Never mind her own preferences; she’d have been out here regardless, just to give them space.
Two bears, trying to figure themselves out...she didn’t need to be in the middle of it. No matter the furrow in her brow when she thought of the look on Ruger’s face when he’d seen Mariska at the briefing. There were other things, too, behind that hurt and betrayal. There was longing. There was deep, deep want. And Mariska...what she’d done had been wrong and hard and even stupid, but it hadn’t been done with intent.
Jet, too, was an outsider. She knew what that felt like. She could give Mariska time; she would give them both space.
Besides, the more she stayed out of things, the more anyone watching the team would think them complete as they were.
Chapter 8
R uger opened his eyes unto the birdsong of early morning and found himself still on the couch.
Not that he’d intended it. He’d watched Mariska make her way up the stairs—everything about her rounded and strong, dark hair dragged back into a French braid that brushed her shoulders, teasing him with a glimpse of breast and strong cheekbone before she disappeared into the loft—and he’d thought to wait until the effect of their... conversation... faded before he moved from the couch.
It had taken longer than expected. And eventually he’d fallen asleep, and now he found himself blinking awake to classic morning wood and the sight of Mariska leaning back against the stair railing, her arms crossed and her brow raised.
He rubbed his fingers over his eyes, pressing a little harder than he probably should have, and swore.
“Good morning to you, too,” Mariska said, and something in her voice alerted him. He dropped his hand to look at her more closely, and to see the little furrow between her brows just barely visible behind her bangs.
“You okay?”
“Do those cures of yours come with a hangover?” she asked, clearly having decided not to query his sleeping arrangements.
He centered himself in his damaged healing space and felt it from her—the lingering headache, the touch of malaise. He pulled back just in time, stopping himself from any attempt to soothe her. Dammit.
She must have seen it—she shook her head with emphasis. “Uh-uh,” she said. “None of that. I just need coffee. Something tall and strong and with plenty of sugar in it.”
“Whatever you’re feeling isn’t from the restorative,” Ruger said. “More likely it’s from the hit you took in the first place. Be more careful today, huh?”
“You think?” she asked crossly.
“You don’t have to go,” Ruger told her. “If you’re not well, it would be best to stay here and recover.”
The look she sent him was eloquent answer enough, dark temper behind brown eyes. He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Hey,” he told her. “Believe it or not, it’s my job to look
Own it and go on.
Mariska squared her shoulders and found her determination, and walked away.
* * *
Jet curled up in a hollow between two scruffy, twisted little oaks, tucking her nose over her tail and perfectly happy to be out in the night. She had some curiosities left from the day—wondering what had put that look in Ruger’s eyes, and seeing the faint and atypical worry in Ian as he disembarked, glancing over at Mariska.
She’d drift in close enough in the morning to catch Ian—to interrogate him with wolfish eyes and whatever persistence she needed. Tonight, she left them alone to absorb whatever it was that they’d found.
Besides, they still carried the faint stench of Core, whether they knew it or not. She’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
She flicked her ears forward, moving nothing else but her eyes—looking down on the cabin she could have been sharing with Ruger and Mariska, if she’d wanted. Never mind her own preferences; she’d have been out here regardless, just to give them space.
Two bears, trying to figure themselves out...she didn’t need to be in the middle of it. No matter the furrow in her brow when she thought of the look on Ruger’s face when he’d seen Mariska at the briefing. There were other things, too, behind that hurt and betrayal. There was longing. There was deep, deep want. And Mariska...what she’d done had been wrong and hard and even stupid, but it hadn’t been done with intent.
Jet, too, was an outsider. She knew what that felt like. She could give Mariska time; she would give them both space.
Besides, the more she stayed out of things, the more anyone watching the team would think them complete as they were.
Chapter 8
R uger opened his eyes unto the birdsong of early morning and found himself still on the couch.
Not that he’d intended it. He’d watched Mariska make her way up the stairs—everything about her rounded and strong, dark hair dragged back into a French braid that brushed her shoulders, teasing him with a glimpse of breast and strong cheekbone before she disappeared into the loft—and he’d thought to wait until the effect of their... conversation... faded before he moved from the couch.
It had taken longer than expected. And eventually he’d fallen asleep, and now he found himself blinking awake to classic morning wood and the sight of Mariska leaning back against the stair railing, her arms crossed and her brow raised.
He rubbed his fingers over his eyes, pressing a little harder than he probably should have, and swore.
“Good morning to you, too,” Mariska said, and something in her voice alerted him. He dropped his hand to look at her more closely, and to see the little furrow between her brows just barely visible behind her bangs.
“You okay?”
“Do those cures of yours come with a hangover?” she asked, clearly having decided not to query his sleeping arrangements.
He centered himself in his damaged healing space and felt it from her—the lingering headache, the touch of malaise. He pulled back just in time, stopping himself from any attempt to soothe her. Dammit.
She must have seen it—she shook her head with emphasis. “Uh-uh,” she said. “None of that. I just need coffee. Something tall and strong and with plenty of sugar in it.”
“Whatever you’re feeling isn’t from the restorative,” Ruger said. “More likely it’s from the hit you took in the first place. Be more careful today, huh?”
“You think?” she asked crossly.
“You don’t have to go,” Ruger told her. “If you’re not well, it would be best to stay here and recover.”
The look she sent him was eloquent answer enough, dark temper behind brown eyes. He held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Hey,” he told her. “Believe it or not, it’s my job to look
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