Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,68
of resurrecting him.
“Hello,” Beck purred. “Good of you to join us.”
“Hope we’re not interrupting,” Lance said, unable to keep a frown off his face.
Beck’s smirk became a smile, and his tail – draped over the arm of the throne – flexed like a cat’s, its spade tip catching the light. “No, not at all.” He lifted his chin long enough to flick his fingers, beckoning them. His other hand remained at Rose’s back. “But I thought: if we are to work together as a team, we should have a headquarters.”
Lance frowned.
Tris said, his voice gruff, “We have a base. We have several bases.”
Beck’s gaze slid to him, golden and impossible. “It’s Tristan, isn’t it? Yes,” he said, before Tris could answer. “You do have bases. Military bases. But I’m not in the military.”
Lance took a breath and tried to tamp down his hot surge of anger. God, he hated this asshole: all smug and superior, like he was smarter and better than everyone else…and that wasn’t counting the fact that he looked like a demon from a storybook. “If you’re working with us, then you’ll have to obey the military, like it or not.”
Beck tilted his head, the movement not quite human, his gaze one that sought to understand – and which sent a hard shudder down Lance’s spine. Rose had always been a little out of reach, enigmatic and stoic and an island unto herself – it pained him to see how she slotted together with Beck, to know that this was the man who’d helped to shape the mystery of her, when Lance loathed him in all the ways that mattered.
“Am I working with you?” he asked, innocently. “Or are you working with me?”
Gallo took a sharp breath and muttered, “Shit.”
Beck grinned, and looked at him, in turn. “Quite. You’re Francis, aren’t you?”
Tris shifted his weight, his rough palms sliding audibly on his rifle.
“Frankie,” Gallo said. “Or Gallo.”
“And only Francis to your lover,” Beck said. “Understandable.”
Tris took a breath.
Lance said, “It won’t be safe to stay here overnight. The helo that dropped us took off, but I can call another. Or armored transports.”
Beck waved dismissively. “We’ll be perfectly safe here. Don’t worry.”
“You saw the city,” Lance pressed. “It’s a fucking disaster.”
“Yes. And you want me to fix that, don’t you?” A hint of steel in his voice, now, a threat in the hard curve of his lips. “That’s why you went along with Rose’s plan. You don’t care about me. Only what I can offer you.” At this his wings spread, deep black, blotting out the stained-glass mural behind him, overlaying St. Michael’s wings with his own.
Lance fought the urge to grind his teeth. “This city is the most infected in the country. If we hope to turn the tide of war, we can’t save the worst sore spots for last.”
“I agree,” Beck said, easily. “It’s better to lance the ugliest wounds first.”
“Then, if you’re going to help us–”
“This is shaping up to be a threat, Sergeant.”
“Guys.” Rose slid off his lap and to her feet, her expression hardening – all save her eyes, and those Lance had never seen so full of conflict, as she glanced between them, a silent plea. “Let’s not do this. Beck, you agreed to help – that means helping under our conditions.” When she turned to regard her former – probably current, again, given the state of Beck’s shirt buttons – lover, Lance couldn’t see her face any longer, but he could see Beck’s. He looked nearly amused, eyes glittering like backlit gems.
“Alright,” he said, softly, after a moment, and reached to press her hands – quick but gentle, intimate – between both of his. He stood with the grace and poise of a king. “You’re right, sweetheart.”
Then he looked to Lance, and a challenge shone clear in his expression, one Lance felt was mocking. Baiting. “Lead on, then, Sergeant du Lac. I put myself in your capable hands.”
TEN
Before
Lance stared up at the ceiling and fought to catch his breath. Rose lowered herself to the mattress beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, and even though he was overheated and tingling all over, he lifted his arm so she could settle more closely, and so he could hold her, his hand tucked into the tight, inward flare of her waist. She liked to cuddle, afterward, he’d learned; one of those small, endearing, wholly unexpected details he’d come to know in the last few months.