Bree may be away healing, but she has left behind a thank you gift! For the next few weeks, Tuesdays & Thursdays will feature new posts from a serial featuring some old friends. This serial was originally posted (mostly!) on Patreon, and has been edited and finished to be posted live on our blog over the next few weeks. But for those who just want it NOW, or who hate reading on a blog and would like an epub… Well here is the epub!
Return to the world after the Beyond Series and meet the residents of Sector Three…
When Ashwin asks Six & Bren to take in an emotionally fractured Makhai soldier, there are a thousand things that could go wrong. But they are hard at work building their school and rebuilding their sector, and Sebastian is a genius who can fix anything. Anything. In return for his help, all they have to do is give him a safe place to find out if his emotional wounds can be healed.
Just one traumatized supersoldier in the middle of a school filled with former feral street kids, war refugees from exclusive brothels, and a few dozen kids who barely know what a school is.
What could go wrong?
—
DISCLAIMERS: this is a serial meant for existing readers of the series. it contains full series spoilers for the Beyond Series and may not make sense if you haven’t read it.
It is also NOT erotic. This is the first part of a very very very slow burn romance between a broken Makhai soldier and an artist who escaped Sector Two after the bombings. There may also be a few other romances a brewing… consider this more like a TV show with multiple members of the cast up to hijinks, even if there are two main characters.
—
Callie adored all of her students, but the little ones were her favorites.
Of course, she loved watching the older kids open up to the true impact of art as they learned to employ subtlety and technique to express themselves. But nothing could match the tiny ones for sheer freedom and wonder. They were so full of life, with everything cranked so high. They could break her heart with a sob, then mend it in the next breath with a smile or giggle.
She finished organizing the pastels from her previous class and then leaned against the wall to watch as Alexander Santana–better known as Ace–sprawled across the floor on his stomach in a sea of tiny artists. The fact that they’d covered the floor with big rolls of paper had kept most of the finger paints off it, but the same couldn’t be said for Ace. Tiny colorful fingerprints decorated his face, his tattooed arms, and most of his clothing.
He seemed oblivious. Hell, he seemed as gleeful as the kids, as he used the tip of his finger and the chaotic collection of tempera paint to produce elegant sketches of one kid after another as they squealed in delight and tried to copy him.
“Five minutes,” she warned, and the squeals turned into protests and groans.
“Hey now.” Ace finished his final portrait with a flourish before rolling to his knees. “No backtalk to Miss Callie. Clean up good, and maybe I’ll bring you a surprise next time I visit.”
One of the girls, a gregarious five-year-old named Marin, scratched her nose, leaving a green smudge of paint behind. “What kind of surprise?”
“You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” Ace swiped at her nose with his thumb, taking most of the paint away, and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “Go wash up, or Six will yell at me when you all show up to lunch looking like you got in a brawl in a paint factory.”
Callie covered a smile. “And be sure to thank Mr. Ace before you go.”
A chorus of voices rose as the kids jumbled into a mass that almost resembled a line. Their social duties discharged, they chattered as they filed into the washroom at the back of the class.
Callie propped her hands on her hips. “They never want you to leave, you know.”
“No one ever does,” he replied with a wink. He rose gracefully to his feet and swept up a towel to scrub at his hands. “I’m ridiculously loveable.”
“Oh, is that what you call it?”
“Around little ears, it is.” With most of the paint cleaned from his hands, he tossed the towel aside and strode to the table under the window, where he’d dumped a huge duffle bag on his arrival. “Lucky you, you don’t have to wait for your surprise.”
“Are you trying to flirt with me?” she asked, even though she knew he wasn’t. There was something about Ace Santana that translated into an elevated resting state of attractiveness. Charm, her trainers would have called it.
“Pfft.” He waved a hand. “I’d never flirt when Rachel isn’t here to join in. She thinks you’re adorable.”
“You like to make me blush.” Her cheeks heated, and Callie covered them out of habit, then shook her head. “Show me what you brought. And if it’s more expensive supplies, I should warn you that Six threatened to start paying you.”
“Yeah, yeah. She can whine about it all she wants.” Ace rolled his shoulder, stretching the arm Callie knew he’d injured in the war, then unzipped the duffel. “Most of this is for the kids, but I thought you might like something nice. And since I just got a box of the samples…”
Grinning, he pulled out a long, sleek box and offered it with a flourish.
Callie gasped. “Your paints!”
The front of the box was understated in that classy way that usually meant something cost a fortune–she’d seen that marketing trick used often enough during her days in Sector Two. No, it was the back of the box that startled a laugh out of her.
It was a picture of a shirtless Ace, all his sex appeal on display right alongside his tattoos. She grinned, then flipped the box open and gasped again at the sight of the rich, vivid pigments they’d managed to infuse into the oil paints.
She closed the box, held it out with a bow, and gave her honest opinion. “I hope you make a million credits off this line, Santana. You deserve it.”
“I’m planning on it. And I’m not taking that thing back with me. I got some good canvas for you in that bag, too. You deserve it.” For a moment, his brown eyes took on an earnest expression that made the charm of his flirtation seem mild. “You’re doing good here, Callie. You’re giving them something none of us ever had.”
“Six is doing that,” she protested. “I’m just grateful I can be a part of it.”
“Bullshit,” he retorted. “Six is my sister in my bones, but I know that girl. She doesn’t give a shit about art. You helped her see that some of them don’t just want it. They need it. For some of us, it’s the only way out of all the shit we’ve seen.”
For Callie, it had been more than a way out. It had been a lifeline, an outlet that had literally kept her alive in her patron’s home. “I have something to show you, too.”
She’d stowed the painting beside the tall shelf behind her tiny desk, and nerves had her hands shaking as she retrieved it. Ace had seen her work before, plenty of times. He’d seen her portraits and scenes and even her reproductions of famous works, all faithfully done with an eye toward accurately capturing the minutest detail.
But they weren’t her. She had a stash of paintings that no one had ever seen or would ever see–not even Ace–but this one was closer. It wasn’t as realistic–she’d used colors in the desert landscape that hadn’t really been visible–but it was the first piece of herself that she’d felt comfortable sharing.
She uncovered the landscape and propped it up on the desk, holding her breath as Ace studied it, his gaze utterly focused. Two fingers touched the edge of the canvas, smoothing along the edge. “There you are. Your sharp edges are peeking through. You should let them. Your eye for colors is fucking amazing.”
“You think it’s good?”
“I think it’s stunning.” He slanted a look at her. “I’m not going to go chasing after whatever you’re hiding from me. Yet. But give me more like this and I’ll put it in my gallery. And sell it to those fancy city fuckers for enough money to make you dizzy.”
“I don’t care about the money.” The words were as giddy as they were true. “But you can’t have this one. It’s a gift for someone.”
“Oh really.” Ace propped his hip on the table and raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the special someone?”
“I haven’t met him yet. The new guy Six hired? Ashwin’s friend from the Base.”
“Ahh.” A small furrow creased Ace’s brow. “Have you ever met Ashwin?”
“Just once, when he came over with Deacon and Laurel.”
Ace rubbed his thumb along the edge of the canvas again. “This is an amazing gift. Just…don’t take it personally if the new guy doesn’t seem to give a shit. Ashwin’s pretty much the cuddliest Makhai soldier ever, and he’s got all the emotional warmth of a brick most of the time.”
Six had warned them of that, and worse. There was some question as to the man’s stability–enough, at least, for Six to deliver strict instructions on what to do if he freaked out. “You’re biased, Ace. I put a painting in all the new people’s rooms, and three-quarters of them don’t even notice.”
“Heathens.” Ace reached out to tug lightly at her hair. “Okay, just don’t go getting yourself into trouble. And whatever you do, don’t ask this guy for any favors, okay? It’s a whole damn thing with them.”
“Very well. I bow to your superior acquaintance with Makhai.”
“You’d better, since I sleep curled around a naked Base soldier every night.” With a grin he pushed off the table. “Tell Six if she wants to pay for anything else in the bags, she’s welcome to come right over and staple the credits to my fine backside.”
Callie waved him away. “What Six does with your ass is between the two of you. But Ace?”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Of course.” He started for the door. “Next time I come, I want to see more of your art. More of those sharp edges.”
“I’ll try. Tell Rachel and Cruz I said hello, and kiss those babies for me.”
“Always.”
The door creaked shut behind him. Callie began to rewrap the painting in its dropcloth, but stopped and traced one fingertip over a whorl of paint.
Ace was kind to warn her not to expect a reaction to her gift. He couldn’t know the truth–that she didn’t want one. This painting was special, a tiny peek into her soul. She couldn’t risk giving it to anyone who might look at it and see too much, glimpses of what Ace had perceived. No, the only safe person she could give it to was Sebastian Montoya, formerly of the Base’s Makhai program. He wouldn’t look too closely. He wouldn’t care to.
And that was just fine with Callie.
#
Sebastian set his pack on the floor of his new quarters, acutely aware of Six’s presence on the threshold. She’d stopped deliberately outside his domain, the toes of her boots clear of the doorway, and she waited there with the practiced patience of someone used to coaxing wary, broken creatures to let down their guard.
She wasn’t anything like he’d expected. O’Kanes were supposed to be sultry barbarian seducers covered in tattoos, unable to take ten steps without fucking against a wall. Sebastian had always attributed a fair bit of the Base’s censure over that to envy–not everyone enjoyed the puritanical standards normalized by their decades of association with Eden.
But Six was none of that. The tattoos, yes. They circled her wrists and climbed one arm, bright and vivid. But she dressed like a soldier. She moved like a soldier. She was short, the top of her head barely brushing his shoulder, but she was the kind of lean that came from a childhood of hunger, and the kind of hard that came from a lifetime of fighting for survival. Anticipation burned in her brown eyes. Some part of her would always be expecting an attack.
Six would be the kind of enemy he didn’t turn his back on. The kind who might actually take down a Makhai soldier, because even the Makhai fell prey to instinctive overconfidence in the face of a physically weaker opponent. One fraction of an opening, and a survivor like Six would rip out your jugular with her teeth if that was the only weapon she had.
Sebastian would not make the mistake of underestimating her.
“The bathroom’s through that door,” she said, tilting her head to the left. “Most of the teachers are down on the third floor, but we’ve been finishing the suites as people need them. You want a bigger room, you’ll have to help us wire it for electricity.”
“This room is sufficient,” he told her. “But if you require assistance with the wiring…”
“We need help with everything.” Six’s lips curled in a brief, wry smile, but in moments she was back to business. “But not tonight. Bren’ll be by to take you to dinner in an hour or so. Until then, just settle in. You’ve got two neighbors on this floor, but they’re not always here.” She pointed behind her. “Zayan’s across the hall. He’s our chief tech expert, so I’m guessing you’ll spend some time with him. And River’s next door. She’s one of our teachers.”
Sebastian slotted the names away into the mental file he was building on Sector Three before he could stop himself. Collecting data shouldn’t matter. Bren would get his week, and then Sebastian could spend six months pondering whether the fractured pieces of his psyche could be reformed into a life that was survivable.
Or if he even wanted them to be.
“If you don’t need anything else…” Six’s words trailed off with raised eyebrows. When Sebastian shook his head, she nodded, waved two fingers at him in a silent farewell, and took her leave, closing the creaking door behind her. He followed the sound of her footsteps fading down the hallway. There was a freight elevator at the far end of the corridor, but instead of the rumble of its gears he heard the squeak of the unoiled hinges on the door to the stairs, and the rapid thump of her boots going down.
No one would be coming onto the fourth floor silently. Not unless they came through a window, anyway. The unoiled door might be an oversight. Given the state of the rest of the building, that was entirely possible.
Two long strides brought Sebastian to the bathroom door that Six had indicated. He inhaled deeply, sorting through the layers of scents. Concrete, wood. Fresh paint–not the industrial kind produced in Sector Eight, but the organic mixture popular in Sector One. And beneath that, faint but detectable, at least to a Makhai…
He reached out with two fingers and pushed the door. It swung silently shut on well-oiled hinges.
Silicone.
Maybe his fourth floor neighbors were also the kind of people who slept better knowing no one could approach their rooms silently.
He turned to survey his home for the next six months. It was small, compared to the accommodations he’d had on the Base. As a rare senior Makhai soldier who was stationed permanently on Base, he’d had his own house. Modest, compared to the homes built for senior generals, but still a rare privilege. He’d had two bedrooms, an office, a private workout room, a full kitchen, and even a little scrap of land off the back where his domestic handler had planted a–
Pain spasmed through him. Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back against the door, letting it take his weight as his muscles trembled in remembered agony.
He couldn’t think about Marissa. Couldn’t think about the Base, or ten months of torture, or anything outside of his new quarters. Six meters by five meters. No closet. One bathroom. Forcing his eyes open, he cataloged the furniture in time with his slow, careful breaths.
Bed. Dresser.
Bedside table. Lamp.
Desk. Chair.
His slow progress around the room snagged on the painting hanging above his desk. The canvas was hand stretched, and he could tell from here that it was real paint, not a chemical print. When his knees steadied, he moved closer, running his fingertips along the textured brushstrokes.
Oil. He could still smell it. Oil paint was expensive in most sectors and downright precious in a place like Three. The rest of his furniture was serviceable, the loving polish not doing much to hide the fact that it had been second rate before it was hard used. But the painting…
It was a desert scene. But not the desert as he usually saw it captured. Whoever had painted this had captured the colors most people never noticed. The way light had a quality, gradations within itself that shimmered off everything it touched. He could taste the rose gold of the sand. The indigo of the sunset. He could hear each individual thread of light, like a tapestry woven with breathless skill.
Sebastian had always wondered why most paintings seemed to capture a duller world. It had taken decades to fully understand that was simply the world most people saw. It wasn’t particularly remarkable for a Makhai soldier to have heightened sensory processing–it was the root of the rumors that they were psychic, for the most part.
But this painting couldn’t have been done by a Makhai. He would believe that Malhotra had fallen in love, but imagining the soldier had also cultivated oil-painting as a hobby was simply too ridiculous.
So there was a human here who saw with sharp, observant eyes. Sebastian would have to figure out who they were. That would be his first mission.
His second would be to avoid them.