Page 14 of Mystic Wonderful

Francis stood afterward, heart pounding in his ears, listening to Tris’s footsteps recede, trying to come to grips with what had just happened.

Several minutes passed, and he found that hecouldn’t.

He’d expected a gruff manner, and some anger, but had mostly thought Tris would allow him to sweep it awkwardly under the rug. He hadn’t expected that low, furious voice, the bristling, pissed-off attitude blasting away Tris’s usual calm.

Had it beenthatbad? Had he beensoout of line?

Even worse: did Tris think he was “throwing himself” at everyone on base?

Scratch that:how darehe care, even if he was.

His own anger coiled hot and hard in his belly; his heart was still pounding, but now it had nothing to do with nerves.

Howdarehe.

Francis took a deep breath, turned, and marched for Tris’s room.

Gold Company had their own little hall, with dorms on either side, plastic plaques bearing their names and ranks.

He rapped hard on Tris’s shut door, and kept doing it until it swept open. Tris’s brows lowered when he saw it was him; he gathered a breath, all ready to be furious and blustery some more.

But this time, Francis was ready for him. He kept his voice low, so it wouldn’t carry, but he was shocked by the steel in it. “I came looking for you today because I wanted to apologize –because,” he stressed, when Tris started to interrupt, “I knew that I went a little too far. I read the situation wrong, obviously, and I’m incredibly embarrassed, and feel like an idiot, and believe me, it won’t happen again.

“But then you had to go and drag me around like I’m a misbehaving dog, and all but called me a dumb slut. So, no, I don’t think I want to apologize to you now. ExceptI will, because I have manners, unlike you.

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable, but I am not, I can promise you, throwing myself at any and everyone. Not that it’s a damn bit of your business, jackass.”

He turned before Tris – now wide-eyed and slack-jawed – could form a response, whipped around the corner, and kept walking, even when he began to shake.

~*~

For two days, Francis lived with the surety that he’d damaged what might have otherwise been a stiff, but pleasant, working relationship with Sir Tristan Mayweather. In service of his own stupid pride, he’d pounded on the man’s door, yelled in his face, and called him a jackass. He’d be lucky if he didn’t get booted from the company; civility was assuredly dead between them. The only thing to do now was avoid him.

They took their meals at separate times, anyway, so that was no chore. If Francis entered the training room, or the gym, or the armory, and caught a glimpse of Tris’s stern profile, he did an about-face and waited him out, returning only after enough time had passed or, a few times, to the tune of Rose’s eye rolls, after she’d gone to check for him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but I don’t think he cares that much.” When he’d given her a sharp look, she’d sighed and said, “Frankie, you weren’t going to have a close relationship with him anyway. He’s a broody old dick.”

He was.

Still fiercely beautiful, but, it was easier not to care about that in the aftermath of what Francis had labeled the Blow Up.

That lasted for two days. And then Gavin got sick.

“It’s just a cold,” he protested in the ready room, though it sounded like “iths juss uh cuhl.” He sat slumped on a stool in the corner, continually mopping his nose and eyes with sodden tissues from the box Francis kept nudging closer and closer to him along the table, wishing he’d just take it, so he could retreat out of the spray zone.

“Right,” Lance said, unconvinced.

“It–” Gavin broke off to hack a wet-sounding cough into his lump of tissues.

“Okay, so,” Lance said, turning to the rest of them, “that leaves him out. Tris, take Gallo. It should only take a few hours, and there’s little chance of encountering any hostiles.”

“What?” Francis and Tris said at the same time.

On Francis’s part, it was a startled squeak.

Tris gritted the question out through clenched teeth.

Just that one word, low and rough and ground out like the tumbling of stones, sent a spear of cold through Francis. Two days had apparently done nothing to improve Tris’s mood. In fact, he seemed even angrier, if the stolen glimpse of his set jaw was anything to go by.

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