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Bar’in’s long suffering whine filtered all the way through the tree branches, Tar’s huge shoulders hunched, and Patrick laughed. He waved a hand over his shoulder as he left.
“Have a good night, everyone. Help each other down. And don’t forget your stretches!” He nodded back towards the camp at Mal’ik and Mal’ik followed.
“Was that Sazahk I saw back there?” Mal’ik asked as they picked their way to one of the small foot paths.
“Oh, it was.” Patrick stopped. He’d moved Sazahk out of the mental box of cartel member and Resistance associate and into the mental box of his squad, so he’d forgotten that he and Mal’ik knew each other. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. “Do you want to go back and say hi?”
“No, he seemed busy.” Mal’ik waved his metal hand, and they kept walking out of the bushes and onto the path. “Oliver and I will find him later.”
“Is Oliver here?” Patrick kept his tone light, having wrestled his jealousy and resentment toward the beautiful, snobbish young man from the all-consuming roar it had been months ago, down to a low hum of discomfort.
“He is. He’s waiting on our ship now.”
Our ship. Patrick swallowed. He needed to get over this. He’d had months to get used to it.
“Will you come for a drink?”
“Will I get any of that high-class Turner booze?” Patrick dug his elbow into Mal’ik’s ribs and Mal’ik laughed.
“If that’s what you want.” Mal’ik shoved him off. “I warn you though, it’s disgusting.”
Patrick shrugged. “We’ll see.” He dropped his head back to peer up at the trees and darkening sky, then rolled it back down with a heavy, relaxed exhale. He had missed his friend, and walking through the jungle with him made the heat feel less like an oppressive stranglehold and more like a comforting blanket. “So are you two here for the Trial?”
Mal’ik nodded. “I’m representing the Tavan military, and Oliver is here on behalf of the Turner Family.”
Patrick’s eyebrows rose. “He wasn’t disowned and disinherited?”
Mal’ik’s scars twisted in a disgusted scowl. “No, his father couldn’t politically afford to. Not with Oliver playing the part of the Turner Family conscience for the reporters.”
Patrick snorted. “Yeah, that’s not the part I would have cast him in back when you were his bodyguard.”
Back then, Oliver Turner had been every inch the scheming, corrupt, morally bankrupt businessman. Patrick had been beyond shocked when the guards had told him Mal’ik had—he blushed to even recall it—‘spent the night’ with him.
“It’s not the part he would have cast himself in, either.” Mal’ik chuckled. He reached out and clasped Patrick’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “But I want to hear about you. Let me smell you again.”
Patrick contained his wince as Mal’ik pressed his nose to the top of his head. He’d never minded Mal’ik scenting him—it went with the territory of letting the giant klah’eel care about him—but he knew what Mal’ik would find, and he didn’t look forward to the conversation.
“Yeah, you smell like him.” Mal’ik released him with a hum. “That’s interesting.”
Patrick kept his eyes straight ahead on the uneven path. He didn’t bother playing dumb about which ‘him’ Mal’ik was referring to. He’d meant to take a shower after the stretching incident last night, but he’d been too frazzled, so he’d just retreated to his tent and hadn’t emerged until morning. It wasn’t surprising Fal’ran’s scent still lingered on him.
“Care to explain why?” Mal’ik asked in his slow voice.
Patrick shrugged and walked a little faster to hide his face. “I taught them some partner stretches last night.”
Mal’ik huffed a laugh and kept up with him. “I don’t remember ever covering my stretching partners with that much of my scent.”
“Well, maybe your memory is going in your old age.” Patrick rolled his eyes as he stepped over the last raised root in the path and out of the jungle. They’d exited the jungle into the older part of the camp, the part with the buildings he and Mal’ik had trained in, and where Patrick had taken his squad for that sparring session.
Mal’ik stopped and turned to face him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you have any idea what he smelled like just now?”
Patrick’s shoulders tensed and he readied a flippant remark about his human nose when he caught himself. This was Mal’ik. This was his friend. This was the only person in the sector he didn’t have to be so Goddamn defensive with. He let his shoulders slump and rubbed at his forehead as he turned to face him. “Yeah, I have some idea.”
“I thought he might actually fight me.” Mal’ik pointed back the way they’d come. “I can’t remember the last time I smelled possessiveness like that.”
Patrick sighed and leaned back against the side of one of the old buildings. “He’s been after me for weeks.” He waved his hand in the air to wave away the image of Fal’ran glaring at him in his mind’s eye. “It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.”
Mal’ik frowned and his metal fingers tapped against the metal plate of his artificial biceps. “Your soldiers come on to you a lot?”
