How could he kiss her like that one moment, and in the next make her feel lower than a germ?
She pulled the towel up over her breasts, shaking her head to clear it. Cold air rushed up to cover all the skin that had been so hot just a minute ago.
“Don’t make me ask again.” His voice hit her like raked gravel.
“I-I just w-wanted to find a bedchamber. Somewhere I could sleep.”
“If you need something, you ask me for it. There are only two private bunks on this ship.” He pointed at a doorway. “You can have this one.”
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him without remembering what it had been like to have her tongue in his mouth, and the way it felt when he’d cupped her bottom and pulled her closer, dragged his thumb over her nipple. The noises he’d made in his throat.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and wanted to die.
He yanked the door shut behind her, leaving her to a restless night, with no idea what he intended to do with her or how she’d get home now.
AT SOME POINT IN the night, he’d brought her clothes back from the bathing chamber. She found them hanging over the door in the morning. Strangely thoughtful of him.
She dressed carefully and tiptoed to the bathing chamber, hoping to avoid seeing him for as long as possible.
Her bouquet still sat where she’d left it, draped over a shelf in the bathing chamber, long white leaves cascading off the edge, the blue flowers so bright they almost glowed in the dim lights. They seemed unfazed by their night in the moist confines of the bathing chamber. If anything, they seemed bolder. She gathered them carefully.
He was leaning against a wall, idly sipping from a mug when she came out. Eeffoc. Rich, and dark. Even just the aroma made her more alert. Her mouth watered. She refused to ask.
“Hungry?”
“Yes, please.”
When she dropped her gaze away from the darkness of his obsidian eyes, they landed on the smooth skin of his chest. Bare, scarred, muscled and swirling with inky black.
Honestly, did the man lack clean shirts? She’d happily volunteer to do the laundry if only he’d pledge to wear them.
He inclined his head and led her down the passageway to a little galley. Another scar as long as her hand, angry red and welted, sat squarely in the center of his shoulder. More scars trailed down his arms.
He rounded the corner into the galley, and she followed. She’d never been in a kitchen on Argentus. Her food had been strictly regimented and delivered on trays.
There was something that resembled a sink, but no faucet. Only sleek black cabinets.
He leaned against the doorjamb, looming over her from his ridiculous height. “Help yourself.”
A row of white cups gleamed under blue lights. She grabbed one, arranged the flowers in it carefully, and set them by what she hoped was the sink.
Bread, labeled in the swirling Vestigi script, smelled of yeast and comfort. Painnea. Thick and brown, bursting with seeds, nuts, and dried berries, but no plates or knives.
Her mouth watered. At the Institute, she’d always been limited to one very small piece of bread daily. Precut and prepared just for her, based on her height, skeletal structure, and the ideal weight for optimal fertility.
She cast a furtive glance at Torum. His face bore nothing but bland curiosity.
He took a long, slow sip, eyeing her over the rim of his mug.
She glanced back at the bread.
Her stomach rumbled.
Blocking his view with her body, she tore off a chunk of the painnea and stuffed it in her mouth. Rich and moist and sweet and salty. She nearly groaned.
“Need a plate?” Torum’s voice burned in her ear, far closer than she’d expected. How had he crossed the room without her hearing?
She spun, mouth full, bread clutched in her hand, and nodded. “Pffeaze.”
He opened a cupboard over her head, and pulled out a plate, offered her a sharp knife. It was only a second, but he hesitated, the knife hovering in the air over her head, then replaced it. He offered her a blunt-tipped one instead.
She swallowed the bread. “Afraid of me?”
He snorted. “The last guy whose kitchen you got a knife from ended up with it in his neck.”
“You threw it.”
“You gave it to me.” He raised a brow. “Eeffoc?”
“Please.” She dropped the chunk of bread on the plate, watching avidly while he pressed a series of flat buttons on a wall panel.
The rich, heady scent filled the air, and after a moment, dark liquid filled a mug.
He turned to the sink, where he filled the cup of flowers with water.
“Why are you being nice?”
He grunted and crossed to the doorway. “Be ready to go in ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Go?” Go where? “A-as in take off?”
“As in out there.” He tilted his head toward the hatch at the end of the passageway.
“Outside? Why?”
“There’s something I need to do.”
“Couldn’t I just stay here?”
“No.”
She tried offering a sweet smile. “Please.”
The dimple flashed—not a happy one, but not an angry one either. A dubious one maybe, and he set down his mug. “Fine. You can stay. I’ll tie you to the bed. It should take me five, maybe six hours total.”
“No, thank you.” She tore off another chunk of bread. “I think I’ll come after all.”
He exhaled a laugh. “I’d suggest you do whatever you did with your clothes yesterday to make them... smaller. It’s hot out. Ten minutes.” He glanced back at her. “We’ll call your future-mate before we go.”
She sucked in a breath. “Agammo? Oh, thank you!”
He quirked a brow, but left silently.
She tossed her bread down on the counter and raced to her chamber to change. Less than five minutes later, she found him again in his seat in the bridge at the front of the ship.
He’d pulled his hair back in a bun and finally put on a shirt, thank the heavens.
