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“I’ll play the next game. I promise.” I’m no asset to any team, and would rather stay on the sidelines and take pictures, but I love being accepted by this big, odd, happy family and wouldn’t consider refusing his invitation.
Just as Colonel Slater predicted, I quickly got used to the splicers. No one terrifies me anymore. Being exposed to these males, seeing their humanity and laughter and struggles, has made me blind, for the most part, to their fangs and tails and backward knees. I just see… people. Which is exactly what I hope my book will do when it’s finally released.
I have my Nikon ready, aiming to capture the precise moment when Nyx the naga’s sleek, scaled body contorts gracefully as he prepares to make a daring save. However, my concentration is disrupted by the sudden appearance of Colonel Slater striding toward us from across the street.
The happy crowd noises grow dull, his presence putting a damper on things. Even though he’s always supportive, he’s still the CO of the base and can make decisions that would turn our worlds upside down in a heartbeat.
“Carry on, you guys. You act as though I’m going to punish you for having fun.” His tone is as steely as those hard, gray eyes.
“How is your project coming, Ms. Quinn?”
“How many times have I asked you to call me Cally?”
“It’s not every day I’m in the presence of a bestselling author.”
“Actually, sir, it is.”
We both laugh. He’s as calm and full of humor as he’s ever going to be. There’s a question I’ve been wanting to ask for weeks now. It’s been burning and growing like a living thing inside me. Maybe it’s the happy sunshine or Slater’s good mood, or simply that I’ve been here a month and I’m pretty sure he can’t change his mind and throw me in the brig even if I overstep my bounds.
“Colonel?”
His flinty gaze whips toward me. Something about my tone must have tipped him off that what’s coming next is not going to be a softball question.
“Out with it, Miss Quinn.”
“I… it’s just…” Shit. I practiced this in my head a couple of times. Well, who am I kidding? It’s cycled through my mind like a mantra off and on for weeks.
“Cally. Say it.”
“The reject barracks, sir. I just don’t know why you’re punishing those males. I’ve met them all, and—”
“Reject barracks?” His eyes are blazing. He barked those words so loudly that Brock, the guy with bear DNA, just held onto the ball instead of returning the serve. Everyone is staring, most with eyes rounded, more whites showing than usual. “Frankly, Miss Quinn, I didn’t expect words like that to come out of your mouth.”
“Words like reject barracks?” My tone is incredulous. “What other name is there?”
“The southern barracks.” His tone is icy, clipped. I’ve never seen him this angry, even when his men dragged me into his office. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth a thin line of barely veiled disgust.
“Would it surprise you, sir, to know that until this very moment, I have never heard that term?”
His mouth works, but no words come out. Finally, he turns from me to the group, who are all watching and eavesdropping without a hint of shame. “Tyler, what do you call the barracks to the south?”
“The reject barracks.”
“Warren?”
“Reject barracks.”
“Sylas, where were you living before you met Cally?”
“The reject barracks… sir.”
The Colonel, always proper and starched and ramrod straight, slumps his shoulders and swipes his palm back and forth across his mouth.
“If I hear anyone, military or civilian, call it that again, we will have words.” He repeats his statement, louder, word for word, as he vibrates with anger.
The game resumes, but everyone is still surreptitiously glancing our way.
“I guess I should ask you to finish your question.” His tone is distracted. For a moment, I consider letting the subject drop, but then decide the timing couldn’t be better.
