Page 47 of Storm Caller

“I’m fine, Mom,” he says, finally releasing his hold on my waist. I sit up, feeling sheepish as I stuff my feet into my boots to avoid making eye contact.

“What’s going on?” Rook asks. “What is General Sol doing here?”

Summit places his hands on his hips. “She wants to see you both.”

“How did she find us? Do you know her?”

His parents exchange a meaningful look.

“You might say that,” Summit answers.

“What haven’t you told me?” Rook demands.

“You know what you need to know. You understand how this works. Not everything is for your ears.”

“Right,” Rook says, jaw clenching. “And now?”

Summit dips his chin. “Get dressed. She’s waiting for you.”

Then he turns on his heel and walks away.

Faroe leans down and kisses Rook on the forehead. “We’ll see you in a few minutes. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Starving, actually.”

“We’ll get something sent over,” she says and then turns to me. “What about you, Poet?”

“Sure,” I say. “I guess.”

It’s been a while since I’ve eaten, so I must be hungry, but I’m also so nervous that food is the last thing on my mind.

Faroe walks over and takes my hand, squeezing it with a watery smile. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

As she leaves, I glance over at Rook, taking in his grin. “What are you smiling at?” I ask.

“My family likes you.”

“Your dad does not like me.”

“He’ll come around.”

Rook tosses off his blanket and swings his legs to the floor with a groan. Then he sits up, stretching his back and arms. He’s wearing only his boxer briefs, and despite being covered in bandages and bruises, he looks good.

“Navy brought clothes for you,” I say, pointing to a pile in the corner. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

Ten minutes later, Rook and I are escorted through the base flanked by the general’s Circle Guards.

We approach a set of wide doors that hiss open, admitting us into a dark-blue hallway, then into a large study. Wooden bookcases painted in the same blue as the walls line one side, while the other boasts a floor-to-ceiling window stretching at least twenty feet high. It looks out onto a barren field of nothing, and I briefly wonder why anyone would bother with a view as depressing as this, but the clouds are sparse today, and the sun is nice.

An unlit fireplace sits on one wall, surrounded by a gathering of dark-blue sofas. On them are High Commander Summit Athira, Commander Faroe Athira, and General Nyxia Sol.

She stands as we approach, a flutter of apprehension crossing her expression.

“I believe you’ve met,” Summit says to me before gesturing to Sol.

“Yes,” I say, recalling the conversation we had standing in the rain, when she reminded me that it was my duty to marry Knox and keep him in line. I’ve broken so many of New Manhattan’s rules that a part of me wonders how I’m still alive at all.

“And my son,” Summit says. “First Lieutenant Rook Athira.”