Page 6 of Kiss of Fury

“You don’t know that. You’ve never had it,” she reasoned with him.

Mother and son shared a familial resemblance in chin, face shape, and hair color, but where the mother had auburn hair, the boy’s leaned toward orange. A spray of freckles dusted his cheeks and button nose; her pale skin was clear. He’d lost a central incisor.Some might see the kid as cute with his mischievous gap-toothed grin; he saw a pain in the ass.

“That’s how I know I don’t like it. I want something else,” the kid replied.

“You’re not getting anything else. First, you haven’t even tried it. Second, this isn’t Earth. I’m pretty sure there is nothing else.”

For a kid who whined about being hungry, he’d become awfully picky.He should try the slop Solutions fed us.

“I’m not eating it.” He folded his arms.

“Don’t, then, but you’ll go hungry until the next meal, and don’t be surprised if they serve the same food.” At least she wasn’t a pushover.

The kid glanced at Fury for confirmation. “Is that true?”

Breakfast would be different, but he wasn’t going to say so. He pointed to a furry child with antennas a couple of tables over. “You see that alien kid? He had to face the same meal every day for a week.”

The kid sulked in mutinous silence for a couple of minutes before picking up his fork and poking one of the protein nuggets. He stabbed one and took a tentative bite.

“Well?” she asked.

“It’s all right.”

He ended up finishing his entire meal.

It was pitch-black outside when they left. They set out across the quad, and Verity bumped into him, stepping on the heel of his boot. “Sorry, I can’t see you.”

He could see fine. “Let me guide you. Keep a grip on the kid.”

He grasped her upper arm and led them across the quad and through the passage. On the other side, the cabins threw enough light that he released her, figuring she wouldn’t fall or get lost.

* * * *

“Bath then bed,” Verity announced to her son.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t argue with me. You threw up all over yourself.” Out of the trunk, she pulled pants and a matching shirt printed with cartoon spaceships and handed them to him. Grasping his shoulders, she marched him into the washroom.

Fury parked himself at the small table, listening and watching their activity.

Water ran and shut off. The bathroom door opened and closed. She walked by the doorway. A bedroom door creaked; he heard her sigh. Then shepassed through the hall again. The other bedroom door opened. She returned to the main part of the house.

“Brody’s bed is a child’s bed,” she announced.

“So?”

“You and I are going to have to share the master.”

“Isn’t that what married couples do?” He’d looked forward to the matrimonial intimacies. He’d broken into enough homes in the middle of the night to know spouses slept together. He blocked the memories of the men he’d killed in their sleep and left for the wives to find.

Grabbing a handle, she dragged her trunk toward the hall.

He sighed and got up. Picking up the chest, he asked, “Where should I put it?”

“The master bedroom. Thank you.”

He carried the trunk into the room, which contained a bed and nothing else. He returned to the table and straddled a chair.

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