Unseen Scene — Book Three, Chapter Nineteen (Morgan version)

Morgan had been expecting a crowd at the auction, but this many of them makes her stomach churn. The only good point is now the ones who didn’t manage to scatter are slapped in runed handcuffs, thanks mostly to the effort of Unit Bravo.

Oh, and Unit Victor.

She shakes the thought away as a wince forms on her brow. She glances down to her arm where a bruised bloom of deep purple and red surrounds a pained gash. Her sharp gaze cuts back to her captive, who flinches at the attention. Morgan’s anger remains for far longer than the injury, which has already healed leaving nothing but freckled skin.

“Here,” Morgan grunts, shoving her supernatural captive at a nearby agent.

The agent stumbles at the sudden handcuffed package thrown his way before nodding with the respectful fear Morgan has worked hard to earn from those around the facility. “Ye-yes, ma’am!”

The scuffling noise and yells of the arrested crowd are a worse pain against her senses than the bruise, so Morgan makes for a quieter doorway now the arrests are pretty much complete. Through the gloom, her gaze traces the room for sight of [Name].

But they left after the auctioneer ages ago.

They better be alright.

Even knowing they aren’t here, Morgan finds herself wishing they were…even if it means that stain of a Trapper escapes. She knows their presence would definitely help the nervous agitation that has her now dragging a cigarette from its packet in her pocket.

A flame flickers to life in front of her, making her grey eyes glow with rings of fiery crimson.

“Why am I not surprised to find you in the darkest corner of the room?” the smooth voice asks as the source of it holds the lighter closer.

Morgan licks at her lips before shoving the cigarette between them and leaning closer to singe the end with the offered heat.

Smoke streams from the end, swaying back and forth between the breaths of her and her sudden companion.

She flicks ash onto the floor, figuring no one probably cares about the state of this place at this point.

“Alima,” she offers as greeting. Her sensitive hearing picks up the way the heart of the leader of Unit Victor jumps a couple of beats at the sound of her own name. Morgan doesn’t bother to think on why.

“That’s it?” Alima snaps in return. She scoffs a breath, shaking her head and slipping the gold, pattern-etched lighter back in her pocket. “Seven months without a word and all you’re going to say is my name?”

“You want a sonnet? Go find Nate. I’m sure he’d be willing to sweep you off your feet with that crap,” Morgan huffs out in reply, dragging in a very, very long draw from her cigarette and ignoring the worsening agitation wriggling like a nest of snakes in her gut.

Alima’s pink-tipped lashes kiss her glittering cheekbones as she lets out a sigh. “Maybe I will.”

Morgan can feel how closely Alima examines her for a reaction…but she has none to give. Instead, she watches the end of her cigarette glow with angry heat as it burns as hotly as the fire that now ignites in Alima’s narrowed gaze.

“You really wouldn’t care if I did that, would you?”

Morgan shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I told you back then—I do fun and easy. That’s it. You said you got that.”

“I did,” she replies before flinging an arm out towards the room. “Until I heard that’s not so true when it comes to this new human.”

Morgan swallows down the smoke that had curled in her throat. It almost seems the hot mist becomes solid and blocks any reply.

Alima looks away and bites at her lower lip, folding her arms. A curtain of dark purple hair covers her expression, but it can’t hide the slow, raggedness of her breath or the uneven beat of her pulse.

“Why them, Morgan?” she mumbles. Her fingernails dig into her arms. “Why them and not me?”

The gradually fading noise of the agents and captors in the other room seem muffled completely against the weighted silence which sinks between them.

Morgan’s gaze falls. “…I don’t know. It just is.”

“Always so fucking honest to the point of cutting,” Alima breathes out through a choked laugh. “At least that hasn’t changed about you.”

“I’m not sorry for it,” Morgan states and means it, dropping her cigarette onto the ground and stamping it out. The mention of [Name] has suddenly unknotted the twist of agitation into certainty.

Alima flicks her hair back over her shoulder to meet Morgan’s eyes. “You shouldn’t be.” She begins to stride off. “See you around, Morgan.”

She watches Alima leave, wishing only that the space she’d left would be filled by the one that Morgan yearns for so badly it leaves an aching hole in her chest.