“No.”
I close my eyes and strive for patience. “Which of my three questions does that no apply to?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up in the barest hint of a smile. “They don’t speak English.”
Well, at least he answered something.
“So glad I amuse you,” I grouse.
He leans close and whispers against my ear, “Me too. There hasn’t been much that makes me smile in a very long time. But you do. So thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” I whisper back, feeling off balance. He never says or does what I expect.
So I cross my arms over my chest and shift my weight to my right leg, mirroring his stance. “And next time, if you want to question one of them, tell me your plans before I shoot.”
“Point taken, well made,” he says.
“And while we’re on the topic of next time, maybe just tap my arm to give me a heads-up rather than grabbing me right before we’re attacked.”
“Did I scare you?”
Not ready to acknowledge that, I say, “You threw off my game. It could have cost us.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds, then he says, “And I scared you. I’m sorry.”
Jackson apologizing. I’m left speechless.
“By the way,” he says, “I was expecting you to ask whether or not I speak Drau.”
“Call me unpredictable.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
Of course I want to know. That isn’t even something I need to acknowledge aloud.
“No, I don’t,” he says. Just that, nothing more. But something inside me loosens a little because Jackson just offered up information voluntarily.
We stand like that, facing off.
“You did good.” That incredible, dark, sexy smile carves the dimple in his cheek and bares his white, white teeth. “I think I like you, Miki Jones.”
I find myself smiling back. I think I like him, too, and that is not smart. Not smart at all.
Fatigue tugs at me. The adrenaline rush of our encounter with the Drau faded a few thousand steps ago. I don’t know how long we’ve been walking—hours? days?—but my feet are starting to drag. Jackson’s in front of me, leading the way. We’re moving at a good clip, and the exhaustion slithering through my muscles doesn’t seem to be hitting him. Some time ago, he reached back, took my hand, and drew my fingers to the loop of the harness that angles across his hips. I was already tired enough that when he told me to hang on, I didn’t argue. I’m still hanging on, and that’s helping me keep pace.
“You okay?” The sound of his voice jars me. It’s the first thing either one of us has said in quite a while.
“Exactly why are you asking me that?” I can’t help the suspicion that curls through the words. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want to admit my exhaustion. Stubborn, I guess. If he can keep going, so can I. Or maybe I want to prove I’m as strong as he. A holdover from my kendo days when I was the only girl in the class, driven to be faster, better, hit harder than any of the boys. But the most likely reason is because I don’t trust solicitous Jackson. It isn’t a persona he wears easily.
“You think I have an ulterior motive in asking if you’re okay?”
I stare at his back. Broad shoulders. Lean hips. Honey-gold hair falling in ragged layers almost to his shoulders. Even in the weird, greenish light, he really is beautiful from any angle. “Actually, I think you have an ulterior motive for pretty much everything you do.”
“You don’t think much of me, do you?” He sounds amused rather than offended.
“I figure you think highly enough of yourself.” But the truth is, I sort of admire the complicated layers of his personality. The way he’s always thinking and planning. The way he’s in control.
He gives a short laugh. I feel it inside my chest, a soft flutter.
“And since you asked, I’m fine,” I say as I sidestep a deep dip in the stone floor, my fingers tightening on the harness. Other than the fatigue, I am fine. I now have my own light. I know what our goal is, thanks to Jackson’s earlier explanation. I feel a measure of control. Well, as much control as is possible when I’m who-knows-how-many miles underground, getting towed along like a stalled car, on my way to face the next attack by a deadly enemy.
“Can I ask you something, Jackson?”
“Ask away. I might even answer.”
Funny guy. “What did you mean earlier when you told me to hang on and enjoy the ride?”
“How do you feel?”
I frown, annoyed that as usual he’s evading my question. Doubly annoyed that he’s asking me that again. He must be sensing how tired I am, and he’s going to make me admit it. Well, I’m an old hand at avoidance, so good luck to him. “I told you already, I’m fine.”