Page 33 of Hunting the Warlord's Daughter

She laughed, having missed this. Yetat the same time, his sudden good cheer unbalanced her. It was as if he wanted her to think all was well between them, that he hadn’t been utterly unavailable all week.

That he hadn’t “ghosted” her.

Tango had used that Terran word to describe being snubbed by an attractive crewmate after two dates. Hadley had stored away the term in case she ever wanted to use it in casual, colloquial conversation, never imagining it would apply to Bolivarr.

Then again, maybe all was well, he wasn’t avoiding her, and only her silly insecurities had caused her to think otherwise. Outside of the ship’s meeting rooms, she and Bolivarr hadn’t crossed paths, true. It was more a matter of their increased workload than it was relationship trouble.

The lift jerked to a stop. They exited the compartment as other crew members pushed their way in.

Everything she’d wanted to tell him spilled out. “Can you believe that urn? The engraving looks exactly like what you drew! I spoke with Sister Chara, the high priestess who’ll be joiningus. I think you should speak with her too. She said that the Agran Sakkara was originally written entirely in those runes—all five volumes. Yes, five. She speaks of the lost scripture as if it really exists.”

He made a muffled sound of pain, as if he’d taken a punch to the stomach. She swerved her gaze to him. “Bo?”

“Lieutenant Bolivarr!” Sergeant “Dice” Rothberg strode down the corridor, his short hair damp. “Today was leg day. You were a no-show, my friend.”

“Aye, I was. I forgot. Sorry.”

Dice pointed at Bolivarr as he continued past. “Tomorrow. Arms. No excuses.”

Being a no-show—for weightlifting or anything—wasn’t like Bolivarr. He always kept his appointments, and she knew he looked forward to his workouts with Dice, another former special operative, but of Earth, called a SEAL. Why wasn’t he sticking to his usual schedule? His attention to detail and adherence to a routine comforted her. Some found predictability in a man boring (like Rakkelle did), but being around Bolivarr was anything but dull.

Bolivarr kept walking, seeminglyunaware of her worry. “I’ll brew us some study fuel.” He unlocked the door to his quarters and let them in, hanging his jacket on a hook then adding water to a teapot in his small galley area.

Stepping behind him, she slid her hands around his waist, over his black T-shirt, as he spooned greenish-blue stim-tea powder into a basket. The aroma tickled her nose as she rested her cheek against his back.“You seem really tired.”

“I just need to remember to get more sleep.”

“But you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” The shadows under his eyes told a different story.

He wasn’t fine. Why was he hiding the truth? It was so frustrating. Shouldn’t they both feel they could lean on each other for support?

The air vents cycled on then. From his sleeping area, half-hidden behind the privacy partition, she heard rustling. He pulled the partition closed and tried to steer her to the galley table. “It’s a mess in there,” he warned her.

“I don’t believe it.” She peeked around his body. “You’re the tidiest person I know—”

The sight before her stunned her into silence.

There were papers everywhere—from large sheets to mere scraps. Some had been crushed into balls, others scratched out. A few might beconsideredworks of art. There were pieces on the bunk, the walls, the ceiling, pasted to the inside of the partition—literally everywhere. Even digital scribbles on a spare data-vis.

And all the same pattern—the five marks, some filled in, others accompanied by runes. It had clearlyturned into an obsession. “Good Goddess. Bo. What is all this?”

He frowned at the drawings, his forehead creasing. “I’ve spent every waking hour trying to figure it out. The answer is right here. But I can’t see it yet.”

She scrutinized the drawings. What if the secrets of Ara Ana were hidden in these drawings, information critical to their mission? “In sick bay, you told me you thought it might be some kind of code. To crack the code, we need to find the key.”

“The key…” He made a strangled groan, his eyelids fluttering.

“Bolivarr!” She reached for him.

He twisted out of reach, one hand raised to keep her away.

“You’re getting worse,” she said, stung.

“I’m gettingcloser,” he said. “Closer to figuring out what all this means. That means no treatment, no meds—and no Doctor Kell tinkering with me like they do in engineering when one of the mag-rail cannons acts up.” He pulled in a breath. “I need more time.”

“You know how I feel about the risks you’re taking. You’re indispensable to our crew, to this ship.”And to me,she thought.

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