Weapons Master Galactic Gladia - Anna Hackett Page 0,10
me on Carthago, I learned not to waste time being nice.”
She stilled, and her green gaze flicked up to his face.
Drak. Why the drak had he said that?
He spun and got back to work. But tension ran through all his muscles. Memories of that time, screaming for his family, for his fiancée. Watching them stare at him with horror and disgust.
The anger exploded. He threw his hammer. It hit the far wall and bounced, knocking over some scrap. Everything clattered to the floor.
“Feel better?” Bellamy walked over and retrieved the hammer.
“No.” He heaved in a breath.
“I get it,” she said quietly. “I feel the same. I feel this ugly thing boiling and twisting inside me. I can’t enjoy this place, the other women. Damn, they are all so freaking happy.” She ran a hand over her short hair, then held out the hammer.
Maxon grunted. He took back the tool, and their fingers brushed. He felt an electric zing.
Scowling, he pulled back. He did not want to feel any connection to her, to anyone.
He wanted to be left alone.
“Get that scrap sorted.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not your slave, cyborg. You could handle learning a few manners.”
“Not going to happen.”
He turned back to the new weapon design. He needed to set the edge differently, and then solve the hilt. Soon he was absorbed in his work. He almost forgot Bellamy was there.
Then he heard a clang and a feminine curse. She had a low, throaty voice that he would never tell her how much he liked.
When he looked over, he saw her sucking on her finger. His brows drew together. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just cut my finger. Keep brooding.”
Ignoring her, he strode over. He snatched her hand and they had a brief tug-of-war battle.
“It’s fine,” she insisted.
“Let me see it.”
“I just escaped a bunch of assholes, so I don’t need to deal with another one.”
Maxon kept ignoring her sharp tongue. He was stronger, so he held her hand still while he studied the cut.
It was a ragged little scrape, but not too big or deep. Still, he hated seeing it on her skin. He dragged her over to the sink.
“Cyborg—”
“It needs to be cleaned.”
He put her hand under the water.
She sighed. “Fine.”
He focused on the task, cleaning the blood and dirt away. Then he grabbed a box of medical supplies off the shelf above the sink. He kept the kit on hand for minor scrapes. He pulled out a tube of med gel, then put some of the blue substance onto the cut.
“Looks like this isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with nicks and cuts,” she said.
He shook his head. “I’m always cutting or burning myself. Avarn and I had a few…discussions about them requiring treatment.”
She snorted. “You mean rip-roaring arguments.”
Maxon felt the uncharacteristic urge to smile. “Voices may have been raised. We compromised, and he left me this kit.” He carefully pressed a bandage over her finger. “And I use it, some of the time. There.”
“Thanks, Ace.”
Ace? He mentally shook his head. She was giving him a nickname? No one had ever given him a nickname before.
Suddenly, they both went still, him holding her hand, his thumb stroking over her skin. It was soft skin, although like him, she had several small scars and calluses on her fingers. She was a woman who used her hands.
She was the exact opposite of the soft, fragrant, and expensive woman he’d once promised to marry.
Maxon stepped back. “I need to work this design out.” He scowled. “Stop distracting me.”
Her eyes fired. “I didn’t cut myself on purpose. And I’m just standing here. Does my breathing distract you?” Her tone was one level above snarky.
“Yes, it does.” He turned back to his bench.
She made a low, angry sound, then she elbowed him out of the way, and grabbed his sword prototype.
“Hey!” he snapped.
“You need to lengthen the hilt. Maybe add a bit more weight to get the balance right.”
His scowl deepened. “I’m the weapons master here.”
“You’re the grump master.” She set the sword down, then headed for the door. “I’ll leave you to brood in peace and loneliness.”
She flounced out the door. Okay, maybe not a flounce, more a swagger with a hint of challenge.
Maxon was surprised to find a faint smile on his lips. She hadn’t been as tense and worked up as when she’d first arrived in his workshop. The pain in her eyes had eased.
He looked back at the bench. And drak, she was right about the hilt—it needed to be