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“No.” Fal’ran tossed the warming cold pack aside. “I’m not gonna do that. I’ve already told him. Multiple times. And before that, I pursued him relentlessly.” Fal’ran spread his hands. “I’ve made my feelings as clear to him as I possibly can.”
Lar’a scowled. “But he—”
“Needs to make his own decisions about what he wants.” Fal’ran gripped the edge of the bench when he realized how right the words coming out of his mouth were. “I can’t push him anymore. I’ve pushed him enough.”
Lar’a’s upper lip curled. “You’re just gonna let him walk away?”
Fal’ran breathed through the pain and nodded. “If that’s what he wants to do, yeah.”
Lar’a’s lip curled enough to wrinkle her nose. “And what about you?”
A dry laugh puffed out of Fal’ran’s throat. Years of fighting tooth and nail for himself and for every scrap of anything he wanted, ruthless ambition and desperation, a single-minded obsession with taking for himself while he had the chance… of course he’d grow past all that right when he found something worth fighting for.
But he had grown past all that. He couldn’t go backward now. So, he shook his head. “It’s not always about me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Patrick watched Fal’ran throw his head back and laugh at a story Bryant told him.
The warm lights of Serihk’s library lit along the line of his jaw and the corded muscles of his neck and glinted off the tips of his sharp tusks. He looked as fierce and deadly as ever, but more relaxed than Patrick had ever seen him. His burnt-orange eyes crinkled at the edges as he said something back to Bryant that made the human snort. His broad shoulders were loose, his stance easy.
Someone sniffed pointedly in Patrick’s ear. “You smell like you need to get a room.”
Patrick snapped his elbow back and jabbed it into Lar’a’s ribs. “Shut up.”
Lar’a’s cackle made Fal’ran look over and his sly grin as he flicked his eyes between Lar’a and Patrick’s hot face made Patrick blush even harder. He held Patrick’s eyes and smirked as his nostrils flared, before turning back to Bryant.
“Asshole,” Patrick muttered to Lar’a around the rim of his crystal wineglass.
“Oh, you’re fine.” Lar’a stepped up beside him, rubbing her side with a grin. “It’s not like he didn’t notice you staring at him.”
That was true. Patrick hadn’t hidden it. Why should he? Fal’ran knew Patrick wanted him, and Patrick knew the feeling was mutual. They’d hardly had time to kiss these past few days and the need for more crawled under Patrick’s skin. The desire thrumming in his stomach had been growing for the past few hours. The way Fal’ran licked his lips and shifted his hips told Patrick he wasn’t the only one with more wanton thoughts on his mind.
“Congrats, by the way.” Lar’a nudged him with her own elbow before taking a swig of something much more alcoholic than the Human-made wine in Patrick’s hand.
“Hm? On what?” Patrick tore his eyes from Fal’ran and forced himself to focus on his friend.
Lar’a smirked and didn’t call him out on the whiff of desire she undoubtedly smelled on him. “The ceasefire? What the hell else?”
“Oh no, that was all Emissary Serihk.” Patrick ducked his head back over his glass. “I don’t deserve any of the credit for that.”
An elegant snort puffed out from behind them both as Serihk rejoined their small party with another carafe of purple liquor. “You stood up to the most powerful men in the sector, walked aboard a hostile alien ship and said, I’d like to speak to your leader, please.”
“And they said yes.” Lar’a drained her glass and held it out for Serihk to fill again.
“Objectively, you deserve more credit than most.” Serihk didn’t speak like he meant to flatter Patrick, more like he stated an obvious fact.
“Thank you.”
In truth, Patrick was proud of the part he played in securing the ceasefire signed only hours ago. It was only a ceasefire, and it could break apart at any moment, but considering days ago they’d been on the brink of all-out war, it was a significant improvement.
The conditions for lasting peace were simple. The Insects needed a home. That home needed to not be someone else’s home. But the sector was running out of habitable space as it was—hence the Klah’Eel invasion of Southern Tava decades ago—so the conditions were simple, but not easy. A group of officials from all sides were tasked with finding a solution. If they didn’t find one fast, Patrick didn’t doubt the Insects would start shooting again. Prince Hyg had seemed reasonable but determined.
A tendril of orange crawled up Serihk’s jaw as he took a sip. “Not to mention what you’ve accomplished with Sazahk.”
“I only thought about what he might like best.” Patrick had spent the last few days not only aiding the negotiation but also ensuring his squad didn’t suffer the consequences of his insubordination. The Insects weren’t the only group of misfits that needed a home.
Serihk’s lips pressed together. “You make it sound so easy.”
