Taking Shield 04: The Chains Of Their Sins

By Anna Butler

2017 RAINBOW AWARD WINNER
First Place: Best Gay SciFi/Futuristic.
Joint Third Place: Best Gay Book.

Shield Captain Bennet arrives on the Gyrfalcon to take up his final year's posting before returning to the Shield Regiment after his rotation out.

On the Gyrfalcon he faces up to the fallout from Makepeace—ethical, political and above all, personal. Will he be able to accept necessity: that knowing what the Maess are up to outweighs the humanitarian issues surrounding the prisoners he rescued from Makepeace? Can he ride out the political furore that follows the loss of the dreadnought Caliban? How will he cope with an entire year of serving under his father, Caeden? And worst of all, how in the name of every god in the Pantheon can he stand to see Flynn every single day, with the Fraternisation Regs standing between them and keeping them apart?

It will be an interesting year. Bennet can hardly wait for it to be over. Of course, things never really do go to plan...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Butler
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370504466

Anna Butler

Anna was a communications specialist for many years, working in various UK government departments on everything from marketing employment schemes to organizing conferences for 10,000 civil servants to running an internal TV service. These days, though, she is writing full time. She lives in a quiet village tucked deep in the Nottinghamshire countryside with her husband. She’s supported there by the Deputy Editor, aka Molly the cockerpoo, who is assisted by the lovely Mavis, a Yorkie-Bichon cross with a bark several sizes larger than she is but no opinion whatsoever on the placement of semi-colons.

Book preview

SECTION ONE: GYRFALCON

37 Quintus - 1 Octavus 7490

Chapter One

Day 1: 37 Quintus 7490

Alpha Six leader, please respond.

Flynn gripped the Hornet’s joystick, his fingers showing white at the knuckles. Even the skin under the nails had blanched. He held his Hornet at twenty miles out in normal space, stationary.

Alpha Six leader, respond.

He’d sent his flight back to the Gyrfalcon ahead of him. They’d have landed by now. They may even have met the new flight captain who’d been scheduled to arrive while they were out on patrol.

Alpha Six leader! The bridge comms officer sounded strained.

The engine control board was to Flynn’s right. He shifted hands on the joystick, stretched his right hand to work the kinks out of his fingers as blood rushed back into them. He let it hover over the bank of controls governing power distribution. Which sub-assembly? Nothing too obvious, nothing too critical. Just something to give him some thinking time.

The conduction cooler would do. He gave the touch controls the briefest of taps, his fingertip ghosting over the tiny sensor pad. Hornets were little beauties: responsive, willing, sensitive. The heat sink, robbed of power for a fraction of a second, reacted instantly. It sulked and leached a tenth of a degree of heat from the cockpit to compensate.

Alpha Six—

Roger. Flynn gave the earpiece in his helmet a deft turn to the left. It would reduce the volume, cause a tiny amount of distortion that Gyrfalcon’s monitors would catch. Sorry, bridge. I have a power problem.

Say again.

A minor power fluctuation. Flynn touched the cooler control again, watched the meter flick up and back. I don’t think it’s serious but I’m trying to work out why it’s happening.

Roger that. Handing you over to the engineering desk for an assist. Stand by.

Standing by. Flynn stared at the star fields projected onto the inside of his cockpit canopy by the Hornet’s sensor array. Clever how it managed a hemispherical view, an instantaneous panorama of the area around him. Anyone would think the canopy was clear, not heavily-armoured metal.

Useful stuff, armour. Flynn lived his life enclosed in it.

Not like Infantry, of course. Their armoured suits were hardly standard equipment for airhead pilots. They’d never fit into a Hornet cockpit, for a start. Not to mention that if a Maess laser shell penetrated Flynn’s Hornet canopy, then no amount of body armour would save him.

Infantry mudbrains spent their lives on the ground, sometimes—often—literally spending them. Which proved that maybe no amount of body armour could save Infantry troopers either, and the only protection it provided was illusory. But then, Flynn had always been okay with illusion.

Like the one he was creating now. His sad little plan to delay his return to the Gyrfalcon and put off the evil moment. Pathetic. He was out here, dithering, when maybe he should be looking around for a bullet to bite on. He should just get on with it. Nothing to be done about it but endure.

So, yeah. Pathetic.

Who was on duty manning the bridge’s engineering desk that week? He could never keep their schedules straight. Micah, was it? He’d be good for soothing the jitters in a spooked pilot, so calm that exploding solactinite would rate maybe a raised eyebrow. Nothing much fazed Pavarti, either, because, hell, could that girl laugh. Her dark eyes crinkled into bright slits, she threw back her head, and her laughter, free and unrestrained, rang out. It always made Flynn laugh himself to hear it.

Engineering, here. What’s the problem, Alpha Six leader?

Damn. Sounded more like Natalia, even through the mild distortion of his comlink. Nothing about Natalia was free and unrestrained. She didn’t laugh out loud much.

Alpha Six leader?

I had a power fluctuation. Probably isn’t anything much, but I wanted to check it out, out here. Flynn let mordant humour bleed into his tone. Where I can’t do any damage if everything goes kaboom.

We’d all regret you going kaboom, Flynn, I’m sure. I’ll take a look. Initiating control now. The touch of acid in the tone was conclusive. Definitely Natalia.

Acknowledged. Flynn didn’t even wince. Natalia’s hostility wasn’t even a flea bite in the face of greater disasters. It couldn’t discompose him. He was discomposed enough already, thank you. He lifted his hands from the controls, allowing her to use the master/slave circuits to fly his Hornet by remote.

Shame about Natalia. She’d been too demanding, too clinging. She wanted too much: sole ownership, exclusive rights. She hadn’t taken Flynn’s defection well. But he’d never promised her anything. She wasn’t her brother, after all, and she’d been a poor substitute. It hadn’t been right, what Flynn had done there. Just as well she didn’t know about Flynn and Bennet. She’d probably arrange the kaboom herself.

One good thing about Natalia being on tech support was she’d be thorough. Very thorough. It would give him a few more minutes’ grace out here, where it would be safe for a while. He could fill up the time thinking about something other than the new flight captain. Armour, for instance. Armour was a fine distraction.

Flynn had seen Infantry armour up close once, when Albion had made the last big push back against the Maess. Two-years ago? Two and half? Something like that. Gyrfalcon had supported a full-scale invasion on a Maess outpost out beyond the fixed star base at Cetes, carrying an entire regiment of Infantry to its target. He’d seen the armour then. Even tried it on, which was more than most Fleet officers could claim. Weighed a bloody ton until the Infantry tech powered it up and he could move. He hadn’t been his usual graceful self, though. He’d clumped about as if made from lead. You wouldn’t make much of a trooper, the tech had said, laughing at how clumsy he was. But given that being a trooper didn’t even begin to figure on his wish list, he hadn’t been too worried about her criticism. At least she’d winched him back up onto his feet when he fell over. Once she’d stopped laughing.

He had armour of his own, anyway. He didn’t need Infantry’s.

Sure, it was different. It didn’t need powering up, for one thing, although some days it weighed just as heavy as anything the Infantry wore. According to Cruz, who was his best friend and knew him, it was one part nonchalance, one part unfailing good-humour, one part silver-tongued eloquence, one part more charm than was good for him or anyone else and at least three parts sheer dumb luck. Mix well, shake vigorously, and it all added up to a human-shaped shield; a devil-may-care construct that fooled and dazzled most people in the Gyrfalcon’s enclosed little world. But then most people were stupid. Not Cruz, though. Cruz was smart as hell.

I’m not getting anything, Flynn. Natalia’s tone sharpened. What exactly did you see?

Tiny jump on the conduction cooling meter. I lost some heat, I think, from the environmental system. Looks steady right now.

Mmmn. Okay. Hold for a minute.

Flynn gave it more than the requested minute before giving the switch a swift touch again.

Okay, got it. Natalia was brisk now he’d given her something to work with. Erratic power distribution—just a flicker. I’m surprised you noticed it. I don’t think it’s serious but let me run some diagnostics. We’ll continue to hold you where you are. Just in case. Two minutes.

Sure. Flynn settled back, returned to staring at the star field around him.

The new flight captain might have expected that of all his officers, Flynn would be there to welcome him. And maybe if he hadn’t been out on patrol, Flynn might have succumbed to temptation and done just that, slinking onto the cutter deck to hover around the edges and being even more pathetic. At least killing time out here, delaying biting on that bullet… well, not even Flynn would claim it was a gesture of independence, a signal that the new captain’s arrival was an insignificance that Flynn wouldn’t deign to acknowledge. No. It wasn’t that.

It was, perhaps, a testing of the armour. Allowing the arrows to ping off it and seeing where the dents and damage were. It was his way of hiding.

Yeah. Pathetic.

He’d always been in hiding, existing somewhere inside his armour. It wasn’t necessary for people to see the real man underneath. Flynn knew a great deal better than to be vulnerable in public. Flynn prided himself on knowing a great deal better than to be vulnerable in any circumstances whatsoever, but if ever there was an exception to that rule, it came in a package with unruly black hair and pale grey eyes, and answered to the name of Shield Captain Bennet.

Bennet. Their commander’s eldest son, Natalia’s elder brother. Their new flight captain. Flynn’s immediate boss.

That Bennet.

The one person he wanted to avoid so badly, he’d fake an engine malfunction to gain time to steel himself for the ordeal.

And the Bennet who, when Flynn did arrive back on the flight deck after an hour’s inconclusive tests and manoeuvres, congratulating himself on his masterly strategy for putting off the inevitable, wasn’t even on the Gyrfalcon where he was bloody well supposed to be.

All that effort for nothing. Typical. Somehow, Flynn had always managed to get screwed over where Bennet was concerned.

Bloody typical.

**~*~**

Late? What do you mean, he’s late?

As in not on time. Behind schedule. Tardy. You know—what you are. Late. Cruz had taken Alpha Two, her own flight, in from patrol a few moments before Flynn’s Alpha Six pilots had landed. But she’d waited for him to land so she could offer moral support and she was somewhat tetchy about how long she’d sat there. Altruism was rarely its own reward. What the heck do you think I mean? He’s not on board yet. Deckmaster’s office said the cutter’s about an hour out.

Oh. Flynn let his mouth turn down. That definition of late.

Cruz was a good friend. She didn’t kill him. Probably tempted, mind you, but her restraint was admirable. What went on out there with your Hornet? They said you were having problems.

A shout over to his left had him turning his head. Three ground crew were shifting Flynn’s ship out of position, taking it off the overhead launch lines to park it to one side of the hangar, where a group of techs waited to strip it down. The crew chief let out another yell, windmilling her arms and pointing to reinforce her instructions.

Flynn grimaced. He’d have to keep out of the engineers’ way for a while until they forgot about it, because they sure as hell weren’t going to find anything. It might pay to be extra nice to his ground crew, too. Minor power flutter. Don’t think it’s serious. At Cruz’s raised eyebrow, he hunched up his shoulders. Kinda didn’t want to come in, you know?

And bless her, but Cruz did know. Her sharp expression softened, and she punched him lightly on the upper arm. Come and have a drink. She smoothed her hand over the spot she’d just punched, and smiled. I’ll even pay.

A true friend. His best.

**~*~**

It had been hard to get over, even when Bennet was light-years away on another ship; more than hard in the beginning, two years before, when Flynn had come back alone to the Gyrfalcon after six glorious weeks spent on a furlough in which he and Bennet had rarely got out of bed. True, time and distance had dulled everything, but when time and distance merged into here and now, and the exception to his never-be-vulnerable rule was suddenly there, on this ship… well. Flynn’s great plan not to be in public when it was made manifest was now buggered six ways to hell and back, dammit. He might have failed to evade this moment altogether when his ‘let’s pretend my Hornet is broken’ ploy proved pointless, but be damned if he’d be ambushed. When he saw Bennet again, it would be on his own terms and on his own terrain.

And it was his terrain. His. He knew Gyrfalcon’s every nook and cranny. He knew her calm, quiet places where a man could spend a few minutes on his own, to catch his breath and count the losses after a firefight where he’d seen another friend disappear in a flash of fire and blood and bone. Or count other people’s losses after another winning streak. Or grin wryly after what Colonel Quist, with Flynn standing ramrod straight in front of the her desk wearing his best innocent face and professing complete ignorance of the susceptibility of the nurses in MedCentre, described as another sinning streak.

He knew the way the shadows fell so that a man could stay in them, making his own way, unnoticed on those rare occasions when he didn’t want to be noticed. And he knew where to stand on the cutter deck where he could see, but not be seen; allowing him to weather the first shock of invasion and gauge the other side’s strength without revealing his own.

Control over the cutter deck alternated between the two Hornet landing bay deckmasters. The cutter deck sat amidships, flanked on each side by the Hornet landing bays, with each deckmaster’s office sitting square on the division between the bay they were responsible for and the cutter deck. In a useful peculiarity of naval architecture, their offices jutted out five yards above the deck floor, jammed up against one of the main support pillars, the all glass sides giving each deckmaster an uninterrupted view of their entire domain. But the real advantage was Flynn’s. Under the overhang of the starboard deckmaster’s office, right up against the pillar, lurked a patch of near-black shadow, more than enough to hide in while he watched the cutter flit in through the force field and land.

A blast of fierce air from a furnace might have dried out his mouth more thoroughly, but Flynn wouldn’t have put any money on it. He swallowed hard, worked his lips and tongue to get some moisture back. His hands were damp, though, and while the cutter moved with slow majesty on its under-jets to the parking slot against the port wall, he rubbed them up and down his pants legs to dry them. Hell. So bloody uncool, being more nervous than a virgin giving it up for the first time. How stupid was he to want to see Bennet so badly he could taste it, like salt on the tongue? When the cutter outer door opened it was all he could do not to bound across the flight deck to… to make a fool of himself. At least he had enough self-control to avoid that. Instead he pressed himself back into the shadows, where he was safe, drawing in one shaky breath and holding it when Bennet was there, real and breathing and just there. Right on the deck in front of him.

Bennet had regained the weight he’d lost when he’d been so ill after being missing in action on Telnos. He’d been painfully thin when Flynn had held and loved him in the Grande Hotel in Sais, moving slowly so as not to hurt Bennet more, careful of the scarred leg with the twisted knee. Bennet had looked pinched and ill, worn out. But now he was his old self, his T18-self from four years before, fit and healthy and… well, beautiful. Bennet was beautiful. He didn’t seem too bothered by the leg now. He stood for a moment, looking around the deck, and then strode down the cutter ramp with not so much as a limp.

Flynn remembered to breathe, sucking in air. Bennet looked good, standing at the top of the cutter ramp, surveying the deck. And even if Flynn had imagined the fleeting look of disappointment on Bennet’s face (and he didn’t think he had), the image was something to hold onto.

He didn’t think Bennet was looking for the commander. He knew it wasn’t the commander. He knew.

Grinning, he watched Bennet talk to the cutter’s pilot, Danae. He didn’t shift out of the shadows until Bennet had disappeared into the decontamination chamber and Danae had climbed up into the deckmaster’s office above Flynn’s head, bitching about officers who treated her cutter like a taxicab and never even left a damned tip, and ‘Where did you put his box of books, Maire, and who in hell reads books these days anyway?’ When Flynn had done the count in his head, mentally sitting through the decon cycle, and he was sure that Bennet would be through and on his way up to the bridge, then he made his own quiet and unobtrusive way off the deck.

No one had known he was there.

The decon chamber door closed him off from any chance of discovery, letting him weather the first shock of invasion. He’d have to wait another hour or two before he could launch the counterattack. But there were ways of spending the time. Intelligence gathering had its attractions.

The corridor beyond decon was clear. Flynn nipped into the starboard elevators and up to Deck 5. The IT people lived up here in a series of interconnecting compartments that were half immense hardware stacks containing billions upon billions of bytes of data, and half rooms full of smaller access terminals where the techs worked on the Gyrfalcon’s computer networks, updating her links to the even more immense computer systems back in Military Headquarters on Albion. The head of the IT section had his office at the middle of this information nerve centre.

Captain Gil held a nominal military rank, but he was no soldier. He was no card player either. He was abysmal. Playing cards with the man was on a par with swiping lollipops out of the hands of unsuspecting infants. In the interests of efficiency, Gil should just transfer his money into Flynn’s bank account every month and stop pretending he knew anything at all about cards.

Gil spluttered something incoherent and profane when Flynn appeared in his office and said as much.

I’m merely suggesting you cut out the middleman. Flynn flashed Gil one of his most charming smiles. The one he practised daily to keep it in trim. You owe me most of your next month’s pay, you know. Even at the inflated rate you techie types get.

More spluttering. Gil’s face reddened. It wasn’t a good look on him. He wouldn’t meet Flynn’s gaze and shifted his weight from foot to foot. The man couldn’t give a better demonstration of embarrassment if he tried for a month.

Flynn moved in for the kill. But do me a favour, and I might just lose those IOUs.

Gil had no backbone when it came to facing up to Flynn when the chips were called in. He cleared his throat, giving Flynn a swift, assessing look as if to see if Flynn meant it. Is it illegal?

Certainly not! A touch stalker-y, perhaps, but not in the least… well, perhaps a legal grey area but only a pedant would quibble. I just want to check something out. It won’t take long and it’s nothing you need worry about. Nothing will get back to you because no one will ever find out about it.

That was one helluva nervous tic Captain Gil had.

Flynn took several pieces of paper from his pocket—he was old-fashioned when it came to debtors and preferred to see them sign away their lives in ink—and fluttered them invitingly between his fingers. One hour. That’s all I want.

A few minutes of persuasive argument later, Gil gave him a jerky nod, grabbed the papers from Flynn’s hand and took himself off somewhere where he wouldn’t have to ask why Flynn wanted to spend the next hour watching the deck monitors. However inept Captain Gil was at cards, he was smart enough not to ask inconvenient questions.

Flynn might not be an IT tech, but he was good with computers. He knew enough to manipulate the security network to good purpose, tapping into the dataflow from the sensors on the command section of Deck 7; specifically, the sensors that covered the corridor where Simonitz’s old quarters were situated. It helped the time pass, sitting there watching one of the quartermaster’s staff run to and fro setting up Bennet’s new quarters. He couldn’t remember the corporal’s name but he’d find it out and cultivate the boy, draw him into a game or two, get to know him. The corporal had the entrée into Bennet’s quarters and you just never knew when that would come in useful.

When the quartermaster’s corporal next appeared on the security monitor, he wasn’t alone. Bennet walked beside him, a backpack slung over one shoulder. Flynn leaned forward, getting closer to the computer screen, peering at the tiny picture to get the best fix he could before he rebuilt the armour

He’d been right, on the flight deck. Bennet walked easily along the corridor, not seeming to favour his right leg at all, no trace of a limp, no painful hobbling. The surgeons had promised he would get back full mobility. Evidently, they hadn’t lied. Bennet had come close to losing that leg. It was good to see him walk without pain.

Outside the door to Bennet’s quarters, the two paused. Bennet swung the backpack off his shoulder, catching it in his right hand. That was back to normal too, then. The corporal handed Bennet something. Flynn craned to see what was being handed over. No time to reset the sensors and sharpen the focus. He didn’t want to miss a thing, didn’t want to be taking time out adjusting the sensor when Bennet was doing something significant and important like taking the key of his quarters from the corporal and swiping the card through the security reader.

Flynn snorted. Good gods, but he really was pathetic. He had to be pretty far gone if something as trivial as Bennet opening a lock had his heart pounding and his mouth, his stupid mouth, curving up into a grin that on anyone else would lead to mockery and social embarrassment. He was such a fool.

Still, he’d have to get used to feeding off such little things, such trivial things. Because if he knew Bennet, those fraternisation rules would be there like a glass wall with Bennet on the other side: visible and untouchable. Flynn would have nothing but the trivial, the ordinary, to live off from now on.

It wasn’t a thought calculated to provoke hilarity and optimism. Flynn reset the computer, wiping clear all trace of his unauthorised on-line activities, and slid out of Gil’s office. Gil, working at a terminal in the computer section housed outside, merely nodded as Flynn left, looking relieved. And well he might, given how much he’d owed Flynn.

It didn’t matter. Flynn would have Gil in debt again by the end of the month.

He stood outside Bennet’s door, looking at it with an intensity and interest that would have surprised even Cruz (who knew, better than most, Flynn’s ability to carry displacement activity to sublime heights). If it came to debts and calling them in and a balancing of the books, then the real problem wasn’t people like Gil, but the man on the other side of the door. Flynn shrugged, sighed and lifted a hand to sound the doorbell.

He rang three times before it opened. Despite anticipation, the shock of suddenly facing Bennet, of having Bennet less than a yard from him… well, the casual, sophisticated greeting he’d planned vanished from his mind like smoke.

He opened his mouth, and all that came out was a faint, pathetic Hey.

Oh, smooth, Flynn. Real smooth.

Chapter Two

Flynn. Bennet sounded unsurprised. He’d been expecting him, then.

Flynn saw the flash of something in Bennet’s eyes, but it was gone before he could work out what it was. Close up Bennet looked… Flynn choked, raised both hands. Ben.

Bennet took two swift steps back, out of reach.

Flynn let his hands fall. He cleared his throat, and the armour closed over, allowing him to grin with a cheer he most certainly didn’t feel. Good to see you. Can I come in?

Bennet’s mouth unset itself. His eyes flickered sideways, uneasy and troubled. Su-sure. The slight hesitation in his voice made him sound much younger than he was. Sure.

He stepped to one side to let Flynn in, and then, clumsy suddenly, took a few more steps backwards, holding himself with stiff, squared shoulders and getting himself well out of reach.

Not that Flynn offered to reach out. He knew boundaries when he saw them. Instead, he pushed his hands into his pants pockets, to keep temptation firmly at bay and walked inside. The door slid closed behind him.

They looked each other over in silence for a minute. Hell, this was awkward. If Flynn had been uneasy standing outside that door wondering if he dared ring the bell, it was ten times worse now. One of them had to say something. The silence was so close it pressed around him like a second skin.

He cleared his throat again. Anyone would think he had a cold or something. You look well.

There was that flash of something in Bennet’s eyes again, gone too fast for interpretation. You too.

Mmn. Flynn took a moment to look around the room, using it to get his emotional bearings. The quarters were bare and characterless at the moment. Bennet hadn’t had time to unpack, of course. The leg okay?

Wha—? Oh. Yes. Yes, it’s f-fine. Bennet stared over Flynn’s left shoulder. Pretty good, really. I’m even playing Tierce these days.

Good. We could do with a decent Tierce player on this ship. The opposition isn’t up to much.

I should fit right in then.

Taken by surprise, Flynn laughed. I didn’t mean it like that! The laughter died in his throat at the tight grin he got from Bennet. The hand’s okay, too, then, if you’re playing?

Fine. Well, reasonable. Aches when I’m tired, so it’s just as well I’m left-handed. Bennet’s shoulders dropped a touch. He looked less defensive, more open. How’ve you been?

Fine. Just fine.

Good.

Flynn looked away again, blew out a silent breath. Bennet looked around the room, too. Their gazes caught and locked, and Bennet flushed.

Do you want a coffee, or something? Bennet gestured to the little galley kitchen. I’ve just made tea.

What? Oh. No. No, thanks. Look, I thought it was better we did this privately, you know? No witnesses.

Whatever ‘this’ was, apart from being bloody uncomfortable. Bennet made some indistinct noise that could have meant anything at all, except anything warm and welcoming. He held himself stiff, so tense he was almost thrumming with it. He was taut and wound-up, like one of those museum-piece chronometers with gears and springs, ready to snap.

This must be what it was like, dealing with a wary, half-wild animal that had been badly treated in the past. Flynn would have to take this slow. Careful. Can I come in properly? Sit down and, you know, talk?

Sure. Bennet didn’t step back any further—he was almost backed up to the kitchen counter as it was—but he still managed to look as though he was shrinking away to give Flynn room to get to the long, built-in seating unit.

Bennet trailed over to join him. Sure about the coffee?

What? Flynn made himself concentrate. No, I’m fine.

It’s no trouble.

Flynn shook his head. No. Really.

You don’t mind if I…? Bennet picked up the cup of tea.

No. No, of course not.

Dear fucking gods. Was it possible to grind teeth right down to the bone? The tension was well-nigh crushing. Flynn made his jaw un-tense itself. Look, I know this is the posting from hell for you and you really didn’t want to be on this ship—

Bennet flushed. For lots of reasons.

Flynn huffed out a deep breath. It wasn’t just him, of course not. I know that. But I wanted to say something and then maybe we can sit down and work out a way through it all, okay?

Bennet nodded.

All right. And yet another breath was blown out. Right. Flynn hesitated. What the hell was wrong with him? He knew what he was going to say. The gods knew he’d practiced it long enough. First up, I know, Bennet, all right? I know there can’t be anything—even if either of us still wanted there to be after two years—because you’re my captain and the rules are there and you won’t break them. Right?

Right. Bennet had given Flynn a sharp sideways glance when Flynn had started speaking, and the very tips of his ears were pink. Now he flushed.

I do see that point of view. Really. I mean, I’ve broken rules all my career, but I’ll go bail you never have.

Not when I could get caught, no. Not ever, really.

Thought so. Flynn grinned at him. The cold lump in his gut clenched and griped. But let’s clear up a few things before we decide what to do next, ‘kay?

Okay.

So, the second thing is that I’m going to say this only once and I’ll never raise it again. Promise. He looked down at his hands, folded them in his lap. They didn’t tremble. Which was a good thing, because his insides felt like they were shivering and shaking and it was better not to show that on the outside. In case you’re wondering, there hasn’t been anyone else. Not anyone like you, I mean. When Flynn thought he could look up, Bennet’s eyes were very wide. You?

No. Not anyone like you.

I heard about Rosie. Natalia told me.

Ah. She did?

Flynn nodded, but he didn’t elaborate.

Bennet looked odd, as if he’d touched something that had given him a mild electric