Cavalon’s mouth gaped open as he processed what she meant. She wanted him to get backup. She had no intention of joining him.
“But, wait,” he sputtered. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m going in.”
“No way,” he said, then, somehow, he found himself adding, “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
Rake’s eyes sharpened. “I’m sorry, did that sound like anything other than an order?”
She was right, it had sounded suspiciously like an order. But then his stupid mouth opened again. “I am following orders,” he said, voice wavering. He cleared his throat. “Optio North told me to go with you. Not to follow you until a ship of Drudgers showed up, then turn tail and run.”
“You’re not running; you’re getting backup.”
“Backup I’ll probably never find my way to, and backup that, by your own admission, will come too late,” he insisted.
“Fine. Stay here.” She turned away and bent down to pluck the power cartridges from the pockets of one of the fallen Drudgers.
“Rake, wait,” he said, surprised at his own adamancy. “I’m going—” He stopped himself, knowing he needed to choose his next words carefully. He was in no position to demand anything of her.
As if to reiterate that point, Rake stood slowly, then turned to face him even slower, staring at him with expectant challenge in her eyes, just waiting for him to say something stupid enough to justify punching him in the face.
He steadied his breath, thinking back to the fight in the air lock hours earlier—how together, he and Jackin held the gate, and together, the four of them cleared the air lock long enough to make their escape. It was the same dogma all the recruitment initiatives spouted, the same motto on all the propaganda posters from the Resurgence War. Staying together was what made them strong—a tenet the Legion as a whole had been doing a really shitty job of adhering to lately, at least when it came to the Sentinels. And he didn’t ever want to be able to count himself among those who’d abandoned Rake.
He squared his shoulders, locking eyes with her. “Let me go with you.”
Rake crossed her arms in utter, incredulous exasperation. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he assured. “Shit-cutting, remember? But you gotta give me a chance.”
Her glower wavered slightly, then she let out a brisk sigh. “Fine. If this is how you want to die, I’m not going to stop you.”
“Your faith is touching.”
“But if you want to stay, you need to fight,” she insisted. “You can’t be dead weight. I can’t have to protect you.”
“You won’t have to.” Bloody void, where’d he get the balls to say something like that? He shook his head. “Uh, but, just so you know, I’ve never shot a gun in my life.”
She glanced down at his right arm, then met his gaze again. “Then don’t use a gun.”
Cavalon turned his arm over and the gold and bronze Imprint squares glinted as they caught the light.
“From the way you kicked ass in the mess the other day,” she continued, “it seemed like you might have had at least a little combat training.”
Cavalon took a moment to relish that morsel—Rake thought he’d kicked ass?
He composed himself and cleared his throat. “If bar fights count as combat training, then yes. I’m well-versed.”
She tilted her head in contemplation. “So, you’re scrappy. Like when you threw a door at the Drudgers earlier.”
Scrappy. He could work with that. He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”