“He bite you?”
I turn a blank, almost dazed look on Mika.
She doesn’t look at me. Her eyes, filled with longing, are still fixed on the water.
“He bite you,” she parrots.
I sit up, stiff. “What do you mean, why would he bite me?”
That punchable smile returns—and her murmur is soft, “He will.”
The serene look on her face shutters.
Finally, she tears her focus away from the bay and looks over my head—
I twist, numb, and trace her gaze to Samick.
He’s pulling away from the general who’s turned her back on him now.
A painting of pride, his chin is high and his shoulders set as he makes his way back to us, almost like he doesn’t at all feel the stares following him, or couldn’t care less about them.
Mika is relieved of her babysitting duties.
Samick isn’t even halfway across the shore when she’s kicked off her boots, rolled up the legs of her leathers, revealing the sheepskin interior, and treading off to the waters.
I watch her go.
And I watch her even after Samick has dropped to a knee by his bag, and the familiar sound of his rummaging around in the perfectly organised satchel becomes background noise.
I’m only interrupted when he tosses a packet of beef jerky my way. It grazes my thigh before landing on the sand.
Looking down at it, I feel nothing but numbness, like Mika took a carving knife to my insides and just cleaned it all out of me.
My mouth twists with a cold hatred.
I kick out at the packet.
The rustling stops—and Samick aims a sharp look at me.
For a beat, he just stares. Then his hands abandon the satchel, and he braces his forearms on his thighs.
I sniff and turn my cheek to him.
But I can’t escape the sound of his voice—
“What is your trouble?”
A scoff jolts my shoulders.
My trouble.
Him.
He’s my trouble.
Mika’s my trouble, whether she’s telling me the truth or she just likes to annoy me with her conversation.
This fucking unit is my trouble.
