Depraved by Trent Evans
Chapter 31
Yulia nursed a scalding hot cup of coffee from her perch seated atop the ammunition crate. The Awakening soldiers had led them back to their bivouac, a well-camouflaged campsite, just inside the edge of the Fen.
It was quite close to the site Jon suspected was manned—and it turned out it would have gone very badly for them indeed had they advanced on the position as Anson had proposed; the site, makeshift or not, was well-protected by automatic weapon emplacements and sensor arrays.
Fortunately, events proved such action unnecessary.
Jon sat next to her, and though his hands were once more cuffed behind his back, he was still somehow… proud.
And oh, so strong.
How could this bound, ostensibly helpless man still make her feel so safe? It made no sense, but little did anymore.
She watched across the clearing where Anson, Tom, and Lyssa were speaking with two of the Awakening loyalists. Anson looked angry, or worried—she could never tell with the taciturn captain, as he didn’t exactly wear his emotions on his sleeve.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” She mused it softly, even though there was no way Jon knew any better than she did.
“Make him tell you when he returns.”
“How would I do that?” She nudged his shoulder, sipping.
He chuckled softly. “Anson may not have said it, but it’s as clear as day to me. You’re their leader now. They don’t have a choice in the matter.”
She didn’t reply, staring into her coffee, the steam still wisping upward lazily. Was that really true though? Yes, she’d gotten her way with visiting Jon, and they’d agreed with her subsequent proposal to let him drive them in the rover.
But had that been anything beyond the necessities of an emergency?
One way to find out, Yulia.
Anson finally walked back over, then took a knee in front of them.
“Thanks,” he murmured as Yulia poured him a cup. He sipped it, seemingly impervious to the heat of the liquid.
“What are we looking at, Anson? I don’t remember anything like this being set up before…”
“It’s not a pretty picture. First Lieutenant Nichols—that’s one of the guys I was talking to just now—is nominally in command here, but as soon as we showed up, he surrendered it at light fucking speed.”
“He did?” She glanced at Jon. “Surrendered command to whom?”
“Well… looks like me.”
“Lucky you, Captain Merriwether.” She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring little grin.
His shrug was either rueful, or resigned. “It’s a mixed group here. Infantry, mostly. Some security, a few mechanics—and a field medic even. But there aren’t nearly enough of them—maybe a couple dozen, all told. Barely enough for a full-strength platoon, really.”
“Better than nothing,” Jon said quietly.
“Roger that,” Anson muttered, nodding. “Apparently, something went down at Gamma while we were gone. Officers started disappearing, or being demoted—or even banished from the base past the outer sensor perimeter. Nobody knew why—and we still don’t. A few of the non-coms pieced together that most, maybe all, of the officers that got cashiered had been loyalists. So, it looks like Harling’s conducting a purge—but again, we don’t know why. Those non-coms grabbed one or two of the junior officers, including Nichols, any enlisted that were willing to go, and slipped out before whatever the fuck was happening got to them, too. Fortunately, this bivouac site had plenty of pre-placed supplies, weapons, and ammunition. They just didn’t expect to be using it in these, uh, circumstances.”
“What are the circumstances?” Yulia asked.
“Potentially? Fighting our own side. Once Harling realizes we’re out here, and he will, eventually—they’ll come for us. I don’t think any of us anticipated the greatest danger to us might be from our own, rather than the Carter Faction. But here we are.”
“Then we need all the help we can get,” she said quietly, but keeping her gaze locked on the captain.
“What do you mean?”
She laid a hand on Jon’s arm, ignoring the electric charge that earthed directly behind her clit at just the mere touch of his flesh. “It’s time to unlock his cuffs.”
Anson’s gaze darkened. “That’s not a good idea. He’s a prisoner, Yulia.”
Her heart beat surprisingly hard, but she knew she had to take this next step—for both her and Jon.
“Not anymore he isn’t. I’m making him my… personal bodyguard. Effective… right now.”
Anson’s mouth dropped open for a moment, then he quickly regained his composure. “You’re… you’re serious?”
“Yes. Please take off his cuffs.” She wished her voice hadn’t wavered the tiniest bit, but she was proud she’d been able to say it without even stuttering once.
Anson shook his head, giving her a side-eyed look. “I don’t like this…”
“You… you don’t have to. But you do have to do what I tell you… don’t you?”
Surprising her, the stern captain appeared to swallow down a tiny smile. “Yes… yes, I suppose I do.” But when he moved behind Jon, Anson’s expression was pure ice as he said the words, his eyes locked on hers. “If he so much as lays a finger on you—or any of my men—I put him down like a fucking dog.”
He’s laid a whole lot more than a finger on me.
It was her turn to barely suppress a giggle. “I understand… Captain.”
Somehow, that seemed to brighten Anson’s affect, if only a tiny bit. He unsnapped the cuffs, and slipped them inside his ballistics vest.
Jon rubbed his wrists, a hesitant arch of his thick brow. “I… didn’t expect that. Thank you, Yulia.”
“Don’t make me regret this… okay?” She beamed at him, and squeezed his arm, all she dared do out there in the open with everyone milling around. She longed to squeeze many other parts of Jon Rexall, too.
Later, horny girl.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
That was a familiar voice.
His towering frame standing a few paces away, his long red hair free and crazed in the breeze without the restraint of his helmet, it was the ruddy cheeked rifleman, Grif Hughes. The same man who’d let her slip out of Base Gamma.
“Grif?” Yulia jumped down and ran over to hug him. She wasn’t sure why, but she had such gratitude at seeing him. She looked up into his face, suddenly unaccountably bashful. “Did you… did you know… what I was up to? Back then, I mean?”
He winked at her, his green eyes mischievous. “I had some idea you, uh… weren’t planning on coming back anytime soon.”
She leaned close. “Thank you…thank you, so much.”
“No, thank you—for staying alive.” He cleared his throat, looking toward her seated companion. “Who’s… who’s this?”
“This is… well, this is Jon. He’s with me.”
“Oh… good to meet you, um, Jon.” He flushed just the tiniest bit when Jon didn’t offer him his hand to shake.
“Grif…” was all Jon said, scowling.
It was then that she realized—Jon had not liked her hugging the gallant infantryman. He hadn’t liked it one bit. That sent a delicious little fluttering deep in her belly, and she had no idea why.
She retreated hastily back to the ammo crate, hoisting herself up, and making sure her hip just touched Jon’s. He made a tiny, low sound deep in his chest that was suspiciously close to a growl.
Perhaps, if they ever got out of this alive, she could explore what happened when she sparked his possessive jealousy.
Stop acting like a flirty little schoolgirl, idiot. This is deadly serious.
As if on cue, Grif’s sunny expression sobered in an instant. He nodded toward Anson. “Cap… something I think you’ll want to see.”
“What do you have for me, Private?” Anson rose to his feet, tipping his rifle toward her and Jon. “See you two in a bit. We’ve got some… things we still need to go over.”
She couldn’t miss Grif’s suddenly somber tone as the two men walked back toward the bivouac tent.
“It’s not what I’ve got for you, Cap… it’s who.”