Page 18 of Issued

Bear grins, and Martinez shrugs, the epitome of disregard.

Craiger smiles. “That you know of.”

Too bad religion isn’t my thing anymore. I could really use a blessing from the Virgin Mother for patience. “If I knew of a foolproof way to get blood out of carpet, I swear to God—”

“You gotta learn how to relax.” Martinez squeezes the top of my trapezius as he steps around me to grip the doorknob. “This it? The little cutie’s domain?”

I scowl, reaching out to grip his wrist. A surge of pressure keeps him from opening it and stepping into the room but the action drains the expression from Martinez’s face.

The man can be dangerous when he wants to be. It’s why I enjoy working with him. He’s dependable in a fire fight and good company when he isn’t busy being an annoying asshole. You don’t lay hands on a brother unless there’s a reason for it, and Martinez likes physical contact less than most. I let him go with a slight dip of my head. “Her name isTaya.”

“Taya.” The word rumbles low in his throat as he enters her bedroom.

I step forward, a snarl on my lips. If they keep poking at me, I’m going to lose it. Bear grips me by the shoulder, pulling me up short. “Deep breaths. You know they don’t mean anything by it.”

I nod, but he waits a few extra seconds before releasing me.

Bear nudges me with his shoulder. “Get in, get out. No harm done.”

I walk inside without responding. I can justify it any way I like, but being inside of the guest bedroom feels strange now. The room smells like Taya. It reminds me of sandalwood and apples, the scent underscored with something musky and wholly female. It’s enough to make my mouth water. I try to fight it, but Craiger’s words make me wonder.

Does she taste as earthy and full-bodied as she smells? I turn away before the others notice how rigid the thought of tasting her makes me. I glance around. My guest room, a room that has always seemed unremarkable and cold, now radiates “Taya.” She’s everywhere from the books against one wall to the makeup and hair products cluttering the surface of my old desk. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I fight the urge to walk over and organize the area.

Martinez is scanning Taya’s things. “She has more of theseHalobooks than you do.” He walks toward the bookshelves.

I close my eyes and shake my head. They really are going to critique every corner of the place.

“It’s a strange squad. The best ones always are.” Craiger points at a T-shirt tossed across the chair in the corner.

I glance at the shirt and my eyes widen. “Admiral Parangosky. Nice.”

All three men look at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head and my eyes narrow.

“TheKilo-Fivetrilogy?” I ask, trying not to sound as horrified by their ignorance as I feel, and making a mental notenotto talk to Taya about cleaning up her room.

“You are seriously the biggest geek.” Bear’s hand connects with my shoulder. “And it looks like you found your geek queen.”

Craiger picks up an eight-by-ten frame from one of the bookshelves and studies it for a moment before angling it in my direction. “Who do you think this is?”

The photo is of an elderly Asian woman standing on an outcropping, nothing but snow and clouds behind her. Her hair is a long black braid hanging over one shoulder and her furred hood and mittens.

“We’re not here to poke around her things. Put the picture back.”

Martinez walks up behind Craiger. “Looks Mongolian. See all the iron pendants—about two hundred—and the textile snakes attached to the leather coat. Plus, the equine details on the flat drum fit the shaman culture of the region.”

Both Bear and I turn to stare at him.

He throws up his hands, palms facing upward. “What? Some of us like to travel in between deployments. Excuse me for being three-dimensional.”

Bear angles his chin sideways, one eyebrow cocked.

Martinez acquiesces. “Fine. Two-dimensional.”

Craiger places the frame back, the tip of his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth and his brow furrows. “You think they’re related? They sort of look alike.”

I stride over to the closet, and Bear whistles when I open the doors. “Is this all she owns? This is barely the essentials, even by military standards.”

Her lack of clothes makes the closet painfully bare. Simple tees and a couple of pairs of jeans rest on hangers. A black sweatshirt with neon pink lettering stating “Ridin’ Dirty” hangs in the corner. Even her shoe collection is pitiful, consisting of four pairs of sneakers. A complete contrast to Raychel, who loved nice things and being the center of attention.

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