Page 50 of Enslak

"Where are we going?" I asked.

Enslak glanced toward the distant dinosaur roar. He didn't answer—couldn't answer—but his intent was clear. We were moving away from it.

"Wait." I pulled back slightly, my hand still in his. "Maybe we should stay with the ship. It's shelter, it has supplies, and—"

Another roar echoed across the landscape. Faint, but still terrifying.

I turned to look at the ship behind us. The hull was reinforced, sure, but it was built for space travel, not for whatever was out there.

The image of that massive creature I'd glimpsed through the viewport flashed through my mind. The sheer size of it. The way the ground had trembled when it moved.

One good stomp. That's all it would take. One curious investigation, one territorial display, and our ship would be crushed like an aluminum can.

"Okay," I said quietly, turning back to Enslak. "You're right. We need to move."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened. Relief, maybe. Or approval.

He tugged my hand again, more insistent this time, and I followed.

We walked through the clearing, the strange grass brushing against my legs and leaving trails of sparkles on my pants. Enslak moved with purpose, his eyes constantly scanning, assessing.

I was grateful for my uniform—the same one I'd worn on the rescue mission. It was designed for movement, climate controlled, adapting to the temperature shifts as we moved from sun to shadow. The fabric breathed, wicked away moisture, kept me comfortable even as we hiked through this alien landscape.

Enslak wore loose-fitting drawstring pants that looked like hospital scrubs, gray and simple. They hung low on his hips, the drawstring tied in a hasty knot. His chest was bare, his pelt catching the filtered sunlight that broke through the canopy above us.

I'd noticed when I perused the supplies that George had packed more clothes for Enslak—several pairs of pants, some shirts, boots. The thought had seemed practical at the time, necessary for a thirty-day stay.

But now, walking beside him, watching the way he moved with such focused intensity, a different thought struck me: how exactly was I supposed to get him to change clothes?

Heat flooded my cheeks.

He'd worn only a pair of leather pants on Merisalle, the makeup more dirt than fabric. He'd probably worn them for years.

The image came unbidden—me trying to explain through gestures that he needed to put on a clean pair of pants. Him looking at me with those intelligent eyes, confused about why it mattered. Me having to what? Help him? Turn around and give him privacy while hoping he understood what I was asking?

God, I was blushing harder now.

It was such a mundane concern compared to everything else—the dinosaurs, the survival situation, his damaged mind. But the intimacy of it, the domestic reality of spending thirty days with someone who probably couldn't understand verbal instructions about something as simple as changing clothes...

It made everything feel suddenly, intensely real.

Enslak glanced back at me, and I quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by a cluster of bioluminescent flowers growing at the base of a tree.

One problem at a time. First, find shelter. Then worry about laundry logistics.

The forest opened up ahead, and suddenly we stood at the base of a massive rock face that stretched upward at least two hundred feet. The stone was dark gray, almost black in places, weathered by time and elements I couldn't begin to understand.

Vines covered much of the surface—thick, ropy things with leaves the size of plates. They cascaded down the rock like green waterfalls, some as thick as my arm, others delicate as thread. The whole cliff face seemed alive with them, swaying slightly in the breeze.

But between the curtains of vegetation, I could see darkness. Pockets of shadow that suggested depth. Caves, maybe. Or at least indentations in the rock.

"Up there?" I asked, pointing.

Enslak's gaze followed my finger, scanning the rock face methodically. His head tilted as he assessed each dark opening, calculating distances and evaluating access points. His hand tightened slightly around mine—not painfully, but protectively.

He started forward, leading me along the base of the cliff. His eyes never stopped moving, cataloging every detail, every potential threat or advantage.

The first opening we reached was large—maybe twenty feet across, with a high ceiling that vanished into shadow. Enslak paused at the entrance, nostrils flaring as he tested the air. His entire body went rigid, and he made a low sound in his throat. Not quite a growl, but close.