17
Kee woke slowly. The sun poked through the Black Hawk’s cargo bay door in streamers cut thin by the heavy armament hanging from the pylons outside the door. It lit the drab steel of the cargo bay with a magical light, drawing patterns on her clothes and on Dilya’s hair. The girl slept curled in Kee’s arms. When parked on the ground, the Hawk offered enough of a visual shield to make them feel alone, isolated from the rest of the world. Safe.
As she went to move, she became aware that her head was cushioned on someone’s shoulder. His arm draped negligently over her shoulder. She knew the hands. Without having to remember them from the predawn light. Long, gentle hands she’d spotted on Archibald Jeffrey Stevenson III the first time she’d met him exiting the DAP Hawk on her arrival three
