“Was there any permanent damage to your heart?” I ask him.
“No. Fiona ran several scans. Good as new.”
“I’m glad.”
Declan twists around in his seat. “Darlington, what happened to Neema…I heard Evlynne took it out on you, but it wasn’t your fault. Just failed intel on our part.”
A lump clogs my throat. “Thank you for saying that.”
We don’t even land for Declan’s drop-off; I can’t help but grin as I watch him parachute out of the aircraft after Gray announces that we’re nearing Bramble Base.
When we’re alone, I feel Gray giving me sidelong glances. I know he has questions about this clandestine meeting of mine, but he doesn’t voice them, each time shifting his green eyes back to the windshield.
The moon guides our way, as once again we’re flying dark. I’m still amazed by this acute awareness he possesses. He never gets disoriented by the lack of horizon, always trusting his instruments.
Like last time, our landing is smoother than butter, and we touch down on a runway bordered by forests on three sides. I don’t see any signs of life as I peer out the window. Cross said he’d provide instructions when I arrived.
“Just landed,”I report.“Where are you?”
“One click west of your location. Come by foot.”
“How much time do I have?” I ask Gray.
“No more than an hour. I’m jamming the plane’s signal, but I won’t risk grounding myself any longer than necessary.”
“Understood. I’ll be quick. Keep your feed open.”
I jump out of the plane, boots colliding with the dark tarmac.
“I’m on my way. What am I looking for? Give me a landmark.”
“You’ll know it when you see it.”
Well, that’s cryptic.
Near the one-kilometer mark, the trees open onto craggy terrain, and I find myself in a small rock quarry. It’s not in use and hasn’t been for a while, judging by the weeds and vines creeping all over the remains of old, broken equipment.
I feel exposed, and for a moment, fear thickens my throat as I wonder if I’ve been led into a trap. Then I banish the thought, because Cross would never betray me. I have no doubt of that.
“Where are you?”
“Right here,” comes his deep, husky voice.
I spin to see him appear from the side of a crumbling structure that I assume was an office at one point but is now a sagging heap of wooden beams.
Despite the uncertainty in the air, and the lingering ire from this morning’s broadcast, I run toward him. He catches me, one muscular arm sliding around my waist, holding me tight, while his other hand cups the back of my neck. I feel his lips against my hair. I hear him inhale deeply.
“Fuck,” is all he says.
I wholeheartedly return that sentiment.
When he pulls back, his blue eyes are tormented, swimming with unhappiness. I cup his cheeks, rubbing my thumbs along the sharp edges of his jaw, the prickly stubble there.
“You can’t be here anymore, Cross. Not when your brother is murdering Mods in cold blood.”
“I know.”
Relief shudders through me. I thought it would take a lot more arm-twisting to convince him to desert.
