Rush The Game

pain he’s feeling, the bite of agony that tunnels through skin and muscle and bone. I’ve felt it myself.
    With a cry, I put myself between Jackson and the Drau. Defend. Protect. I take out the second threat. The sound it makes as it’s swallowed by the black surge is bone-chilling: a high, keening wail that makes my skin prickle. I feel sick with horror even though I had little choice—it was the Drau or me.
    My whole body shakes. Gasping for breath, I press my palm flat to the rock and struggle for control. I did it. I took them out almost before they realized we were there. After a few seconds, I straighten and realize that Jackson snapped my glow-stick light back on. My pulse slows, and as it does calm returns.
    I lift my head to find Jackson watching me with his hip cocked so his weight rests on one leg and his arms are crossed over his chest. His expression is unreadable, but something intangible gives him away. He’s anything but pleased.
    “You got a problem?” I ask, eyes narrowed, breath still coming too fast.
    “I was hoping to question the second one,” he says. “Next time, maybe wait till I get information before you shoot.”
    Oh. That must be why he was using his knife instead of his weapon cylinder.
    “Question it? The Drau can speak?” I haven’t heard them. Not during a battle, and even now, just before we fought them, they weren’t holding a conversation. “Can they speak English?”
    “No.”
    I close my eyes and strive for patience. “Which of my three questions does that no apply to?”
    The corner of his mouth kicks up in the barest hint of a smile. “They don’t speak English.”
    Well, at least he answered something.
    “So glad I amuse you,” I grouse.
    He leans close and whispers against my ear, “Me too. There hasn’t been much that makes me smile in a very long time. But you do. So thank you for that.”
    “You’re welcome,” I whisper back, feeling off balance. He never says or does what I expect.
    So I cross my arms over my chest and shift my weight to my right leg, mirroring his stance. “And next time, if you want to question one of them, tell me your plans before I shoot.”
    “Point taken, well made,” he says.
    “And while we’re on the topic of next time, maybe just tap my arm to give me a heads-up rather than grabbing me right before we’re attacked.”
    “Did I scare you?”
    Not ready to acknowledge that, I say, “You threw off my game. It could have cost us.”
    He’s quiet for a few seconds, then he says, “And I scared you. I’m sorry.”
    Jackson apologizing. I’m left speechless.
    “By the way,” he says, “I was expecting you to ask whether or not I speak Drau.”
    “Call me unpredictable.”
    “Don’t you want to know?”
    Of course I want to know. That isn’t even something I need to acknowledge aloud.
    “No, I don’t,” he says. Just that, nothing more. But something inside me loosens a little because Jackson just offered up information voluntarily.
    We stand like that, facing off.
    “You did good.” That incredible, dark, sexy smile carves the dimple in his cheek and bares his white, white teeth. “I think I like you, Miki Jones.”
    I find myself smiling back. I think I like him, too, and that is not smart. Not smart at all.
    Fatigue tugs at me. The adrenaline rush of our encounter with the Drau faded a few thousand steps ago. I don’t know how long we’ve been walking—hours? days?—but my feet are starting to drag. Jackson’s in front of me, leading the way. We’re moving at a good clip, and the exhaustion slithering through my muscles doesn’t seem to be hitting him. Some time ago, he reached back, took my hand, and drew my fingers to the loop of the harness that angles across his hips. I was already tired enough that when he told me to hang on, I didn’t argue. I’m still hanging on, and that’s helping me keep pace.
    “You okay?” The sound of his voice jars me. It’s the first thing either one of us has said in quite a while.
    “Exactly why are you asking me that?” I can’t help the suspicion that curls through the words. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to admit my exhaustion. Stubborn, I guess. If he can keep going, so can I. Or maybe I want to prove I’m as strong as he. A holdover from my kendo days when I was the only girl in the class, driven to be faster, better, hit harder than any of the boys. But the most likely reason is because I don’t trust solicitous Jackson. It isn’t