COMPETE: The Atlantis Grail (Book Two) - Preview

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (draft)

​CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"What?" Gracie stares at me, and her lips part. She is completely deadly serious. "Gwen, what happened?"

I stand very still, trying to control my breathing, and just shake my head at her. There is only so much control I can maintain, after all this time—all the pent up things over these days and months, culminating in this one thing—before it takes me.

I must not fall apart.

Not now, not before Gracie.

"Well," I say, carefully choosing words. "He and I said some things, and for the most part, it was actually—"

"What?"

How do I even begin to explain? How can I tell my sister what I myself have trouble parsing right now?

Logan told me I had feelings for Aeson Kassiopei.

He accused me and he judged me. And he put it out there in the open, in hard terms that were cold and undeniable, laying it all out in its white-hot scalding truth before my stupid unconscious mind.

Logan was right—is right.

I am not indifferent.

I try to reason with myself. Reasoning is good. It provides focus and clarity.

So, what exactly do I think/know/feel, when it comes to Command Pilot Aeson Kassiopei, Phoebos, astra daimon, Imperial Crown Prince, son of the Imperator of Atlantida, and my commanding officer?

He's the guy who dances with the wallflower.

The guy who eats alone at his desk instead of the meal hall, so as not to make his subordinates feel uncomfortable, and works around the clock.

Who goes in like a madman, guns blazing, and saves lives—including my own life—after I save his.

Who trains me and gives me orders, and looks at me sharply.

He's the guy with intelligent blue eyes, who wears the black armband of a hero because he once gave his life and died for Atlantis—a mystery I still don't understand.

He's the guy who's so far out of my league that it can be measured by galaxies, literally.

Who's going to marry a beautiful princess of the Imperial Court as soon as we arrive on Atlantis.

Who's going to be Imperator, and whose family is worshiped like gods.

Who possibly holds the fate of my family and my parents, not to mention Earth, in his hands.

The guy who, I was once told, cares about me in some way.

. . . You matter to him, Lark. . . .

And the guy who, when confronted, laughs in my face, and tells me he does not.

I take another deep breath to steady myself.

"Gracie," I say. "It's a complicated mess. Some of it is my fault. Mostly, it is not anyone's fault."

But Gracie continues looking at me with concern, still holding the two glasses in her now shaking hands. "What did Logan do? What did the jerk do?"

"Nothing. He told me some hard things about myself that are true. And I have to admit, I've been unfair to him."

Gracie frowns. "How so?"

I make a stupid little laugh noise and point at myself and at my plain uniform. "For one thing, I didn't dress up. There you have it. I'm kind of a crappy girlfriend."