Mik crumpled the paper, then hastily flattened it out. It was pointless! How could he write to Bliss? He'd kissed her in front of his men ... in front of some of Garth's Ops men. His hand moved across the paper scratching out words he wasn't even aware he was writing. It would be better to see her again, to explain, wouldn't it? But to see her ... then he'd want to do more. To touch her again, hold her ...
Gods he could remember it yet ...
Through the dark the distance
the call of drums in my heart ...
my ears quiver with your sighs ...
I still feel you, liquid gold
I still see you past raven black
Your scent is like ...
like a flavor on my tongue I can't forget.
He stopped the motion of the pencil and collapsed the paper under one hand, crushing the life out of the words she'd never see.
"I can't tell her this..." he cursed at himself. "She's not mine."
She'd hit him hard at his own whispered suggestion that she do so to prevent anyone from compromising her honor. Mik was the cad, Bliss the victim. He still had the bruise, colored dark purple under the black of his beard. The pain when he touched it brought the most curious sort of pleasure ...
The only solution he could see was to leave her alone. How could he ever go to see her again when it was clear she loved Garth Lowinn and all he himself was doing was selfishly screwing up her life? Ric said "to the Abyss with Garth!" Mik couldn't.
It tore his heart because he had dreams. He had hopes. Like Lowinn he wanted the luxury of a family. It wasn't something he could have. He pushed Venexx far enough with having Ric and daring to love Myrr. He couldn't take the chance that loving Bliss would destroy her. Lurudd, I have to stop this. She wouldn't be safe with me. When they knew, she'd die ... like Macy. If Sidd knew, that would be three hostages too many against me. I can't afford that. My men can't afford that. Sabatt can't.
Rationalize, push it away ... be logical. THINK. That was the way. He was the mechanical one. She'd be safer without him. Let her think he was a bastard ... that would be better. Let her think it was just 'a thing in a bar' whatever she had to think to get her through it. It would be better. She could be happy.
"Poetry. Freakin' nonsense." He threw the crumpled paper into the sludge bin where it sunk into the goo. One of the grunts would play recycler later and mix the mess into pulp for new paper. Everything non-organic went in there to be used again. Then he pushed back his chair and headed for the satellite room, his steely eyes flint hard. There'd better be an update on that odd static that was on the grid yesterday.
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