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“Me?” Fal’ran crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. Patrick’s lips quirked at his suspicion, remembering the dumbstruck, hopeful look on his handsome face when Patrick had told him he could be something great. “Why?”
Patrick crossed his arms back and smiled and watched the way Fal’ran stood up a little straighter when he did. “Because you have good people sense. I want to know what you see.”
Fal’ran shifted to put his weight over one leg as he glanced back at the way Sazahk had gone. After a moment, he wrinkled his nose as though his own words confused him. “I don’t think he has a bad bone in his body.”
Patrick’s smile spread into a grin. “I think you’re right.” He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. “You want to know where he came from, though?”
Fal’ran’s nostrils flared when Patrick leaned in and the sudden pulse of intensity in Fal’ran’s eyes almost made Patrick pull back, but he held his ground. In seconds, the look disappeared and Fal’ran dipped his head closer with a conspiratorial smile. “Where?”
“A cartel.”
“What?” Fal’ran jerked back with a disbelieving snort. “A cartel of what? Socially awkward scientists?”
“No, like, a real cartel.” Patrick tried to smother his laughter and jabbed Fal’ran’s ribs with his elbow. “A notorious criminal enterprise, I swear.”
Fal’ran sucked his teeth and batted Patrick’s arm away. “Now I know you’re lying.”
Patrick cocked his head. “Why?”
Fal’ran stepped into Patrick’s space with a glint in his orange eyes that went straight to Patrick’s balls, and Patrick suddenly regretted starting this conversation. “Because he requested you by name, Patrick.”
Patrick’s breath lodged in his throat as his name rolled off Fal’ran’s tongue in his rumbling voice.
Fal’ran’s eyes dropped to Patrick’s neck and his nose twitched. “And you would never be on a first name basis with an active criminal.”
Patrick leaned back. “Wrong. You don’t know me that well yet, Fal’ran.”
“I know you never put a toe out of a line, because if you did…” Fal’ran lowered his voice and reached for Patrick “… you wouldn’t have stopped us last night.”
Patrick caught Fal’ran’s wrist before he made contact. Where he’d been reaching, Patrick wasn’t sure, but he didn’t want to find out. He squeezed the joint of Fal’ran’s wrist to a point just short of painful. “Hands to yourself, soldier.”
Frustration and disappointment distorted Fal’ran’s features before they settled into a smug smile. “See. Not a toe out of line.”
Patrick couldn’t help the amused huff as he pushed Fal’ran's wrist back into his chest and stepped back. Damn cocky kid. He knew Fal’ran smelled his interest. Patrick didn’t have enough control over his scent to hide it, but Patrick wouldn’t give in and once he realized that, Fal’ran would give up like all the klah’eel men before him that had wanted to put the human in his place.
Fal’ran wasn’t really interested. He just wanted a conquest. And Patrick wouldn’t hold that against him—it was that need to climb every mountain and win every contest that would make Fal’ran an outstanding soldier—but he also wouldn’t undercut his own standing in Fal’ran’s esteem by being that conquest for him.
Patrick sighed and turned to leave the tent. “Let’s go, soldier.”
A beat before he reached the tent entrance, he heard Fal’ran heave a heavy sigh of his own. “Smith?”
“Yeah?” Patrick looked over his shoulder, one hand on the tent flap, to see Fal’ran looking down at the ground, with the most adorable pout between his tusks. Patrick fought his smile. “What?”
Fal’ran sighed again before meeting Patrick’s gaze and dragging the words from his throat. “What are my latissimi dorsi?”
Chapter Four
“No! No, no, no, for someone so smart, how do you keep getting this so wrong?”
Patrick slowed his walk to Squad M’s tent when he heard Bar’in’s shrill voice.
“You won’t shoot shit like that, see? Look.”
“Look at what?” Sazahk asked with such genuine curiosity, Patrick saw Bar’in’s exasperated expression in his mind’s eye.
He stopped outside the tent, out of view, and listened to the voices of his squad filtering out from the holes in the thick canvas.
Bar’in was snapping, but he was snapping because he was passionate, because he cared, even if he wouldn’t admit it. His tone of voice was a far cry from the snide, nasty hisses he’d used before. Two weeks ago, Bar’in wouldn’t have cared if Sazahk learned how to hold a gun. Patrick rubbed the back of his knuckles along his jaw where his evening stubble was coming in and making his face itch.
