Weapons Master Galactic Gladia - Anna Hackett Page 0,9
was asleep, except the guards she spotted at the end of a long corridor. They stood by the large double doors at the front of the House of Rone.
She turned, and when she saw some stairs, she went up.
God, how could she feel so freaking alone, when she was surrounded by people here who cared? People who’d risked themselves to rescue her?
A glow of light came from the end of a corridor. She also heard the distant, rhythmic clanging of metal on metal.
She walked that way, her heart hammering. She couldn’t break. She had to stay strong. Pausing in the doorway, she glanced in and found herself looking at a workshop.
Then everything in her body stilled.
A shirtless Maxon was beating a large hammer against some metal clamped on a work bench.
Bellamy’s mouth went dry, and all thoughts went flying out of her head.
He wore black trousers, low on his lean hips. His bare skin was a golden-brown, and his chest and abs were things of beauty. Hard, masculine beauty.
His shaggy hair shifted as he struck with the hammer again. There were so many colors amongst the strands—brown, oak, gold, tan.
Then he stilled and his head whipped around.
Golden eyes locked on her for a second, before they drifted down her sleep shirt to her bare feet.
He scowled and set the tool down. “You should be sleeping.”
He sounded about as welcoming as a spitting cobra.
That actually made her feel better. He didn’t treat her with gushing warmth, trying to make her feel better.
“I tried to, but I…”
As her words dried up, he kept looking at her. “My workshop is off-limits to everyone.”
She kept looking at him. He made an annoyed noise, and turned back to his work.
Bellamy took that as assent to enter. She wandered in, taking in the half-built prototypes resting on the benches, and twisted bits of metal and wire.
“How come you aren’t sleeping?” she asked.
“I like working at night. No annoying people around to interrupt me.” He shot her a pointed look.
She almost laughed. Damn, something about this big beast of a man made her feel normal, more herself.
“Are you always this moody?”
“Yes.”
She leaned against the bench. The mechanic in her itched to touch the tools and some of his designs.
“So why couldn’t you sleep?” he asked.
She sighed. “I’ve been in survival mode for so long. I guess it’s like a soldier returning from battle. I’m too wired, too switched on to settle back into normal life. Everyone’s been so nice, but…”
“You can’t relax. Can’t change modes that quickly. Can’t trust it.”
He spoke those words like he had some experience. Shadows danced in the gold of his eyes, and she wondered what he’d suffered.
She lifted a tool off the bench.
“Don’t touch,” he barked.
Deliberately, she ran her finger down the metal and watched his eyes narrow. Then she set it down.
The pressure in her chest was back, and twisting like an evil poison. She wanted to run, and she wanted to curl into a ball like a child trying to escape the monsters under the bed.
Suddenly, a tanned, muscled arm moved in front of her, holding a different, smaller tool, shaped like a cylinder.
“Here.” He shoved it into her hand. “If you’re going to be in my way, you may as well be useful.”
He turned away and she stared at the smooth expanse of his back, all those shifting muscles. Then she smiled.
Maxon tried to ignore her.
He loved his workshop, his own space, and he hated people in it.
He tried to concentrate on the new design for the sword that he was working on. He’d blended new metals together, but the design just wasn’t working. The edge wasn’t what he’d envisaged, and there was a problem with the hilt.
He watched Bellamy out of the corner of his eye as she studied the tool he’d given her, then pulled some scrap metal out of a box. The laser cutter flared to life, and she grinned.
That smile was like a kick to his gut.
She had a strong face—a bold nose, bold jaw. She wasn’t beautiful, but when she smiled, it softened her features. She cut the scrap metal into strips, her arm moving with flourishes as she learned the tool.
“If you want to help, not just get in my way, cut up that scrap over there.” He jerked his head to a pile of metal on a nearby bench.
“Yes, sir,” she clipped. “Were you born this bossy and moody?”
“No. But when my family tossed me aside as a young man and abandoned