Page 59 of Ember Rising

“What’s your favorite candy bar?”

“Butterfinger.”

She lights up with a smile. “I love those, too. Okay, favorite movie?”

I think about it. “Alien.”

“Respect. It’s refreshing to know not every man loves The Godfather.”

I scoff, amused. “Pretty sure not a single Black man does.”

“Right.” She cringes. “I should have thought before saying that.”

“Nah, you’re good.”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Michael.”

“Any meaning behind it?”

A knot tightens in my chest. “It’s my father’s name. And that’s why I hate it.” We’re approaching the gates, and they start to open from the inside. “What about you? Middle name?”

She lowers her voice. “Martin. It’s my father’s last name. I have my mother’s last name.”

I’ve been lax on keeping our cover. When we leave here, we need to be better about it.

Don approaches us as soon as we get back into their compound, grinning.

“I knew you’d come back. What do you need to get started?”

“I need to boil the cattail roots,” Amira says.

“I’ll set you up in my kitchen.”

Amira puts me to work boiling water for tea and for the roots. I watch her work, impressed by her precision and focus. There’s more to her than I initially realized.

She would have fit in well on my team.

Once we’ve cleaned Shayla’s arms and hands, medicated her and left her to rest, the sun has set.

We eat with around a dozen others from the community; the chicken pot pie and bread are the best things we’ve had since leaving the ILF compound. When we finish, Don gives us a sheepish look.

“I’m sorry we can’t put you in your own room, but we have a strict rule about outsiders sleeping in here where our guards can see you. We’ve been burned before.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “We appreciate the hospitality. We’ll be heading out early tomorrow.”

“We’ll send you with food and water. We can’t thank you and your wife enough for your help.”

Amira told them how to make tea from pine needles if they get deficient in vitamin C. I’d love to know her IQ. She seems to have a goldmine of information stored in her head.

Since we’re supposed to be married, once we’ve showered, we’re assigned to a bed together.

I didn’t want to take my boots and clothes off for the shower, but I needed one, so I gave in. On an op, I’d sleep in my clothes and boots. My feet needed this break badly, though. I’m wearing clean clothes Don loaned me—pajama pants, a T-shirt, and socks. Amira’s wearing purple sleep shorts and a well-worn T-shirt that says “Panthers,” also borrowed from someone who lives here.

We both stand on one side of the bed, our eyes locked. Her whiskey-shaded eyes sometimes tell me more than her words do, but I don’t know how to read them right now. They look nervous and uncertain, but also ... intent. If she keeps looking at me like that, I’ll get hard.

What does she see in my eyes? I turn my thoughts to all the things that could go wrong if I don’t keep my focus entirely on the mission. Breaking my gaze away from hers, I shift my feet.