Secondborn

Chapter 15

A Beautiful Crime

Back at the hangar, I lean against the airship wall, feeling the warmth of Hawthorne’s hand next to mine. All the other soldiers have left the aircraft. It’s just Hawthorne and me who remain. Our fingers touch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“How did you find me?”

“Commander Aslanbek gave me clearance to track your moniker.” He probably thought I was dead. My moniker didn’t move for a long time out there. But Hawthorne fought to find me anyway.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

His hand moves to cover mine. I wince and cradle it in my lap.

“You’re hurt.” Hawthorne tries to look, but I won’t let him touch it.

“I’ll get it looked at later,” I reply. The crest etched into the hilt left its mark, and it will be like a death warrant for the Gates of Dawn soldier and his family if my regiment discovers it. It was monumentally stupid of him to use his family fusionblade in combat, or else extremely arrogant. If I ever see him again, I’ll sticketh my boot up his ass.

Hawthorne’s voice is soft. “Do you know what went through my mind when I found out that they took you in the middle of the night and dropped you off somewhere on the battlefield, Roselle?” I shake my head. His expression turns bleak. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s it, then. She’s gone. She won’t survive that. They’ve figured out a way to kill her as some kind of sick revenge against her mother, and now my life will go back to normal.’” He scowls. “Then I started imagining you on the battlefield—abandoned. Alone.” His teeth clench. “I had this pain—this unbelievable ache in my chest. I didn’t know why at first, but I do now. I used to worry about active duty because I might be killed. Now I’m terrified that it’ll be you who dies out there, and I’ll have to go back to a life without you in it.”

“You hardly know me, Hawthorne.”

“I’ve been in love with you since I was ten, Roselle . . . maybe even before that.”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve watched you forever—for as long as I can remember.”

Disappointment rises in me. “I’m not that person you grew up watching, Hawthorne. I mean, I was her, but ever since I left home and Transitioned, I’m not her anymore. She’s not me.”

“You’re right. You’re not her. You’re better. You think for yourself, and you never back down when you believe you’re right. And you’re not perfect, like they made her seem. You have flaws, but your flaws are sexy. You’re naïve and jaded, smart and gullible, ferocious and delicate. Men will break themselves against your fragile smile.”

“And you? Will you break, too?” I ask, a little breathless.

“I’m already broken, Roselle.”

His hand reaches over to cup my cheek. For a moment, his warm fingers rest on my nape, his thumb brushing my skin. I’ve lost the ability to breathe, as if the air is too thin. His face is half in shadow. He leans closer.

Something rattles outside the airship. Hawthorne drops his hand from me. We move apart, afraid to be seen. Another airship is landing in the hangar. We peek through the open door. Twilight soldiers are waiting outside. I recognize a few, Carrick among them. Tolman is with him.

“I know them, Hawthorne,” I whisper. “They sent me to the front line this morning.”

Hawthorne points with two fingers, first to his eyes, then toward the front of our airship. I nod and follow him to the cockpit. He switches on an audio feed that picks up voices from outside our airship.

“Why is that St. Sismode brat still breathing my air?” an angry voice barks.

“She got lucky. We’ll take her again tonight,” another voice responds. “No way she survives a second time.”

“I want you to deliver a dead secondborn to me!” the first voice screams. “It has to look like the Gates of Dawn are responsible. Contact me when you have her body. I’d like to deliver it personally.”

The door of the other airship closes, and the gathered Twilight soldiers move away. Hawthorne is the first to speak. “I’ll take care of it, Roselle. I have friends. I’ll reach out to everyone in our unit who ever owed me a favor.”

“That was a commander. This goes higher up than even him. You can’t help, Hawthorne. I’ll think of something. They cannot suspect that we know or they’ll act sooner.”

“They’re going to act tonight!”

“Then I’ve got time.”

When I get back to my capsule, I decide I have no other option but to talk to Clifton Salloway. I search my moniker for his contact information. Surprisingly, he’s not listed under “Inter-Fate Playboy” or “Panty-Dropping Smile.” I’m forced to resort to Salloway Munitions. I expect some kind of secretary, but I’m linked directly to the man himself.

“Roselle St. Sismode. What a pleasure it is to see you.” His good looks shine through even in holographic form.

“We need to meet.”

“Would this be for business or pleasure?” He grins.

“Business.”

“Pity,” he sighs.

“I have a proposition. When can we speak?”

“How about this evening? I’m en route to Twilight now. We can discuss your proposition at my private quarters on the Base.”

“I would love to, but some Twilight Forest officers have been having a bit of fun with me. They plan to send me out to the front line again this evening. In a few hours, I’ll be knee-deep in mud and blood.”

“Don’t worry about armoring up tonight. I’ll take care of it. I’ll send a hovercar and an escort for you at twenty-two hundred.” His tone brooks no refusal. I nod and sign off.

I have two hours.

Slipping from my capsule, I make my way to Hawthorne’s bunk. I knock gently on the door. It opens almost immediately. I put my finger to my lips and climb down the steps. He follows me. I lead him to the locker room, into an empty shower closet. I lock the door behind us and face him. “I found a way to avoid being sent to the front.”

“How?”

“You’re not going to like it.” His face loses its cautious smile. “I contacted Clifton Salloway. I’m going to meet him.”

Hawthorne closes his eyes and turns away. “When?”

“Tonight. It’s not what you think. I’m going to make him an offer—one that will be profitable to him. It’ll ensure that he’ll do everything in his power to keep us from the battlefield.”

“Explain.”

“Later. I have to get ready to meet his escort. You have to trust me.”

Hawthorne leans against the shower door. “You think your plan is going to work?”

“I do. I’ll be safe tonight anyway.”

“You understand who he is, right?” Hawthorne asks. “He’s an arms dealer. He sells weapons, legally and illegally. Men like him make their own rules. Men like that don’t do favors for free.”

“I’m going to make him seem more legitimate. I still have the St. Sismode name. It’s synonymous with weapons. I’ll use the name they tried to take from me.”

Hawthorne holds me in his arms. “I wish I could protect you.”

“I wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t found me today.” My fingertips slip beneath his shirt, inching it up, exploring his ribs. As I lift the shirt over his head, it turns inside out, like my heart. I let it drop on the floor. Hawthorne’s chest is broad and strong.

His hands go to the hem of my shirt, peeling it away over my head, exposing my military-issue bra. Midnight-blue cotton covers my breasts, a light blue string cinching in a crisscross at my back. Hawthorne reaches around me and unties the lace. The string slips from my back. He keeps the ribbon, tucking it inside the pocket of his pajama bottoms.

I arch my brow.

“It has your scent,” he answers in a gruff voice. He leans his face nearer.

I tilt my lips up to meet his mouth. His kiss weakens my knees. He gathers me closer to him, and the warmth of his forearm against the small of my back is seductive. His fingertips move to my shoulder, sliding off the blue strap. He kisses my skin, and I shiver. An ache builds inside me. My hand slips to his back, feeling the play of his muscles beneath his smooth skin. The tips of my breasts rub his chest. An explosion of heat drenches me.

Hawthorne lifts me in his arms and presses my back against the wall. My legs wrap around his narrow waist. I feel the hard length of him against me. My mouth finds his again. He holds my bottom, his strong fingers digging into my flesh, his tongue caressing mine.

“I don’t want your first time to be in a shower closet,” he says.

“What does it matter where,” I whisper, “as long as it’s with you?”

“When I make love to you, Roselle, it’s going to take longer than a few minutes, and we’ll need protection. They’ll kill our baby and you, too, if you get pregnant. I’ll never let that happen.”

Being secondborn is a curse that never ends. “I hate them,” I hiss. “I hate them all.” Hawthorne sets me on my feet. I pick up my shirt and hold it to me. Angry tears threaten.

“Shh . . .” He embraces me again. “Don’t cry. It’s no good hating them. They can’t feel it, and it will only turn you bitter.”

“We need to change things.”

“We need to stay alive, Roselle. We can work around the rules and still be together. Let me show you.”

He takes my shirt and tosses it to the floor by the door. Blue light flashes from the scanner on the wall when he swipes his left hand beneath it. The showerhead turns on. Warm water soaks us both. A smile tugs at my lips. I look up at him. Water runs over his face and drips from his chin. He returns my smile, staring into my eyes. His hands cup my cheeks. His mouth finds mine again, kissing away everything awful about today.

I lean against him. Hawthorne’s hand strokes my wet hair. His steely muscles tense under my fingertips. I discover he’s a bit ticklish when my unhurt palm caresses his side. He chuckles, his lips grinning against mine. I feel his hands go lower, following my spine to the waistband of my pajama pants. His hand slips underneath the fabric—past my sturdy underwear—to my bare skin. He cups my bottom. I almost melt in his arms. My heart flutters wildly as he explores my body. Eternity wouldn’t be long enough to discover the vastness of him, but the seconds tick by. My fingers tangle in his wet hair. The water turns off. Hawthorne reaches over and swipes his moniker again. It turns back on.

“How did you do that?” I ask.

“I’m a higher rank than you. I get a longer shower.”

“That’s not fair,” I say breathlessly.

“Are you complaining?” he teases. “Because I could—”

Rising up on my tiptoes, I kiss him. His tongue strokes mine. He inches my pajamas down, and I step out of them.

I’m naked. With him.

I slide my hand inside his waistband, over the smooth skin of his backside, and his clothes pool with mine on the floor. He groans. “You’re so beautiful, Roselle.” Softly uttered, his words fill my head. Tender kisses fall on skin. Desire tears through me like fragments of an artillery shell. Its sharp shrapnel travels everywhere with devastating effect. The heat of it is almost too much to bear. “Terribly beautiful,” Hawthorne amends.

I’m inexplicably linked to this man, as if he owns pieces of me—shards of my heart. The intimacy existing between us was forged in battle and by circumstance, sealed by a searing need for something real to cling to in a world of disposable people. And I do cling to him, consumed by the upheaval of passion that he elicits in me as I learn his body and he, mine.

The water turns off again. Hawthorne hangs his head. “I’m out of shower credits for today.”

It’s difficult for me to let go of him, but I must. I move away to the shelf by the door. I take a towel from the small stack of them, wrapping it around me, and then I hand him one. “I’ll leave first, and then you,” I whisper.

“Wait!”

I turn back around.

Hawthorne takes a step to me and kisses me again. “I didn’t get to kiss you good-bye.”

I want to linger here with him, but I force myself to leave the shower. On the way to my locker, I toss my wet clothes into the phloem. Selecting my uniform, I take it to the bathroom closet, towel off, and put it on. Back at my locker, I apply cooling ointment to my hand and rewrap it in a dry bandage. Closing the narrow door, I walk to a sink with a mirror above it. I twist my hair into an attractive coil and secure it with pins. I pinch my cheeks, adding some color, but they’re already flushed, and my lips are full, swollen from kissing Hawthorne. Evaluating myself in the mirror, I have a glow that was never there before.

“You’re stunning, Roselle,” Hawthorne says behind me. He has changed back into dry pajama bottoms. His T-shirt is draped over one bare shoulder. The other shoulder leans against the wall. He’s so handsome that it’s hard not to melt into the floor.

“Do I look different?” I ask as I blush. “I feel different.”

“To me you do, but I don’t think anyone else will notice,” he replies softly.

“I don’t have any makeup. Firstborns are used to makeup.”

“You don’t need it.”

“You’re biased. You’ve loved me since I was nine,” I tease him.

“I have. I still do—love you.”

“How could I not feel pretty now?” I whisper.

My moniker vibrates. I have a message. I read the holographic words.

Meet me at the main gate atrium of your Tree in twenty minutes.

—Clifton

I frown.

“What is it?” Hawthorne asks.

“It’s a message from Firstborn Salloway. He wants me to meet him at the main entrance of the Tree. He was supposed to send an escort, not come himself. I’ll see you soon.” Impulsively, I move toward him to kiss him good-bye, but then I stop and look around. At the other end of the row, soldiers are brushing their teeth. I look down. “This is going to be difficult—not touching you.”

“I know. My instinct is to crush you to me and never let you go.”

I look into his eyes. “I love your instinct. Try to get some sleep while I’m gone.”

“Impossible. Find me when you get back.”

I leave the locker room and go to the main gateway of Tritium 101. In the branch hallway to the main trunk, I have to cross through a checkpoint. I scan my moniker. From behind me, a voice says, “Little fish, little fish, we was just comin’ to scoop you up in our net. So nice of you to swim downstream to us.” Protium 445 soldiers shuffle over to me like a bunch of thugs, their rifles slung on gun straps that hang nearly to their knees. Instead of looking lethal, it looks stupid. I could shoot them with their own rifles.

“I don’t have time for you, Carrick. I’m under orders to meet an officer.”

“We’re under orders to find conscriptions for our next mission, and we choose you.” He pokes his finger into my chest.

“You won’t like what I do to you if you touch me again,” I warn him. He laughs, thrusting his finger into my chest. I snatch his rifle on its low-slung gun strap, shoving it against his heart with one hand on the barrel and one bandaged finger on the trigger. He stills. “Look, little crocodile, I’ve got you by the tail,” I murmur.

His friends scramble to lift their weapons. I unclip the gun strap from Carrick and step back, pointing it at them. “Aw, what happened to the babbling brook?” I ask them.

One of the guards at the checkpoint calls for MPs, who arrive within seconds. I lower the rifle and stand down, offering it to them.

The lead officer speaks to the guards at the checkpoint. I don’t say a word. Carrick and his friends try to talk over the guards, explaining their orders to gather conscriptions. I remain silent. No one has spoken to me yet. It’s not my turn.

The lead MP faces me. “They say they’re under orders to gather conscriptions.” Carrick smiles smugly. I want to beat it off him.

“I believe they are, Patrøn.”

“And you refuse to go with them?” he asks.

“I do, Patrøn.”

“Why? You’re a cadet. You follow orders.”

“I’m under orders, to meet Exo Salloway at the main atrium. I’m late. I was to be there fifteen minutes ago, Patrøn.”

“Why would Exo Salloway want to speak to you?”

“I’m a munitions expert, Patrøn. He’s a munitions manufacturer.”

“It’s past twenty-two hundred,” he says, with a skeptical raise of his eyebrow.

“There’s a war on, Patrøn. Our enemies don’t stop for us to rest. You’ll have to address any further questions to my commanding officer.”

“Who is your commanding officer?”

“As of twenty minutes ago,” a deep voice behind me says, “her commanding officer is Exo Salloway.” Clifton approaches from the shadows of the checkpoint. “I have jurisdiction over this cadet.”

“She’s Tritium 101. She falls under the jurisdiction of Commander Aslanbek,” the MP replies, checking his tablet.

“Commander Aslanbek and I are good friends. He understands how important the welfare of this cadet is to me. You can confirm this with whomever you like. Make your contacts. We’ll wait. In the meantime, I want a list of every one of these petty criminals’ names.” He gestures toward Carrick and his men with an easy wave of his hand. Then he reaches into the interior pocket of his long, tailored coat and draws a small silver case from it. He opens it and takes out a slender brown cigar, which he lights. It smells a little bit like burning rose oil.

In a couple of minutes, the lead MP returns. “Our apologies, Exo Salloway. You are free to leave. The Tropo as well.”

“The list?” He looks in the direction of the other soldiers.

“Will be sent to you without delay.”

“Thank you. Have a pleasant evening.” He drops his cigar, stamps it out on the floor in front of them, and offers me his arm. It would be rude not to take it, so I do. We walk together to the nearest heartwood.

As we descend, Clifton says, “You seem to draw a crowd wherever you go.”

“Apparently, I’m the most interesting woman in the world,” I reply.

“You are,” he agrees. “I’m sorry that I haven’t intervened on your behalf before this. It was negligent of me not to have realized what was going on here. I’ve been preoccupied. Will you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. There’s no reason for you to intervene on my behalf.”

“Oh, but there is, Roselle.”

“I don’t understand, Firstborn Salloway.”

“It’s Clifton. Please, call me Clifton. And I’ll explain, but not here. Has your unit been informed of the attack against the Stone Forest Base? I believe it was right after you left.”

It was before I left, but I reply, “No.”

“Census was destroyed—an explosive beneath the lake flooded the entire place. Took out all of their tunnels.”

I feign alarm. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Some agents were killed, but most survived. They were switching out monikers at the time. They’ve discovered quite a few spies since. The new monikers are impossible to clone. We’ve been uncovering spies and thirdborns masquerading as firstborns. It’s been extremely tedious. I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

“I’m not bored,” I reply. “I didn’t know you could clone a moniker.”

“You can’t anymore. We’ve stepped up the process of switching out monikers on the Base. They should be starting the process here at Twilight soon. It’s only a matter of time before we detect every single traitor in our midst. And then, we’ll move on to the general population.”

“I thought Exos didn’t really work.”

He laughs. “You are adorable.”

I don’t feel adorable. I feel alarmed. The network of thirdborns will be cut down. I try not to think about Dune. He must have found a way to get a new moniker, or they would have just killed him when his was destroyed during the strike against Forge.

Outside, the wind is biting. Clifton puts his gray coat around my shoulders, and we walk to his impressive hovercraft. His hand moves to the small of my back as his driver opens the door for us. I climb in and move over, making room. We fly to a glass Tree very much like the one Clifton occupies at the Stone Forest Base. The driver docks the craft on the edge of the balcony. Clifton gets out and holds the door for me. After we exit, the aircraft slips away to park elsewhere.

Clifton points to mountains along the stunningly beautiful horizon. “Have you been to the Tourmaline Mountains before?” he asks. He reaches into the inner pocket of the coat I’m wearing. It’s such an intimate action. If I move my lips, they would brush his cheek. I don’t.

He steps back and takes a cigar from the case. Before he can reach into his other pocket, I hold out his lighter to him with my injured hand.

“You’re hurt,” he says, taking the cigar from his mouth without lighting it.

“It’s nothing—a small battle wound. I’ll have it taken care of soon.”

He lights his cigar. “I’m extremely rotten at my job,” he says, puffing out a curl of smoke.

“Again, I thought Exos didn’t do anything.”

“Not that job, my other job.”

“You mean as an arms dealer?”

“No, I have another job that interests me far more than that. I’m one of the active members of the Rose Garden Society. It’s a very important position. I wanted to tell you about it before, but you didn’t want to give me private lessons.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?” I tease.

“You hurt more than my feelings. My ego was severely tested.” A genuine smile curves my lips against my better judgment. We walk the balcony, gazing at the canopy of Trees. I try to figure out where my air-barracks is docked.

“You’re just over there,” Clifton says, pointing over my shoulder, his warm breath on my cheek.

“How do you know that?”

“It’s my job to know.”

“Your job as a Rose Gardener?” I reply.

“That’s right.”

“Am I the Rose you’re tending?”

“Let’s just say that it’s in the Rose Garden Society’s best interests that you remain alive.”

“Why would you care? I’m not the heir.”

“Do you know your brother, Roselle?”

“Of course I know Gabriel!”

“Yes, but do you know him? He’s into some things that make the odds of his surviving to assume your mother’s position . . . highly unlikely.”

“What things?”

“Bad things. I’m not at liberty to elaborate further at the moment.”

“Shouldn’t you at least be protecting him, then?” I’m powerless to help Gabriel, and it scares me.

“Your mother is doing everything in her power to keep him out of harm’s way, but he is who he is.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means if something were to happen to him, The Sword would be forced to accept you as her heir.”

“So you’re hedging your bets. My successor isn’t appealing?”

He laughs as if he finds my question delightful. “If you should die, and then Gabriel should die, your mother would have to have another heir. She’s still young enough, but getting your father back to do the deed would be asking a lot of the ol’ boy. He hates her. An infant isn’t what we need. We need a strong leader. Someone fit to be the Clarity of the Fate of Swords, which is not the doughboy next in line should you die.”

“The doughboy?”

“Harkness Ambersol. Try saying that five times fast. He’s not fit to rule a crella.”

“And you think I am?”

“No one has ever been more fit to be The Sword than you—not even your mother.”

“That is treason.”

“That is the truth. You have a certain moral ambiguity that can get you into trouble, but with the right advisors, you can overcome that.”

“So your Rose Garden Society is dedicated to me—to keeping me alive.”

“We’re just, as you say, hedging our bets.”

“This is pretty complicated for you, seeing as we’re at war and I’m on active duty.”

“It was until recently. Commander Aslanbek has decided to join the Rose Garden Society. It didn’t take much convincing. He just had to meet Harkness, and he took a pin from me on his way out the door.”

“A pin?” I ask.

“May I?” He indicates the pocket of his coat. I lift my arm so he can reach inside. He pulls out a pin in the shape of a rose with thorny vines wrapping around an ancient sword. “You have quite a few followers, Roselle.”

I take the pin and hold it up in the soft light. “Aren’t you worried that your secret society will be found out?”

“Not really. We actually do have a Rose Garden Society, all very legal. We commission Sun-Fated workers to do some beautiful landscapes for less fortunate firstborns. But secretly, the society is only interested in keeping you alive. And that isn’t illegal either.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.

“There are people who’d like nothing better than to see the St. Sismode name die forever. We want you to know that you can come to us for help.”

“There’ll be no favors here. I’ll pay my way.”

“How do you expect to do that?” he asks.

“I told you when I contacted you that I had a proposition for you. Do you know what I did when I first shot a rifle in training at the Stone Forest Base?”

“No . . .” he replies, intrigued.

“They made me assemble the rifle and fire it at a target.”

“Ten seconds?” he guesses.

“Seven.”

“Bull’s-eye?”

“Of course.” I smile. “The parts were all Burton. So why don’t we use Salloway?”

“Burton was the lowest bidder, and Edmund Burton has worked hard to win your mother’s favor.”

“How about I make it sexy to have a Salloway weapon?”

“I’m listening.”

“I will demo every new weapon you manufacture. I will be your spokesperson. I will make Salloway the brand that everyone has to have. You will own the private sector market. We’ll work together on the military, sway the right people in the Sword hierarchy.”

“What do you want in return?”

“I want you to start making these.” I show him my dual-sided weapon.

“Who made this?” he asks. He takes the weapon and ignites it with surprising grace.

“You’ll have to pay a friend of mine for the design. Some money, but mostly you can pay him in merits. I also want you to make a rifle that uses fusion power but can be switched over to hydrogen.”

“Why?”

“Because I know something you don’t. There will be demand, and you’ll be in a position not only to fulfill that demand, but to put Burton out of business in the process.”

“What do you know?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll have to trust me, Clifton.”

I scan my moniker and enter the air-barracks. Everything is quiet; most of the soldiers are slated for medical-rescue detail in the morning. I go to the locker room, change into my pajamas, and climb to Hawthorne’s capsule. I rap lightly on the door. It opens immediately.

He grabs my wrist and pulls me inside. It’s impossibly tight in here. I practically have to lie on top of him in order for us both to fit. He shuts the door with a touch of his foot to the console. The Secondborn Trials play out on the screen above our heads. They’re down to the final competitors—a burly male Sword, a wily female Star, and another male Sword. They look battered and bruised, almost incapable of remaining on their feet for much longer.

“What happened to Linus Star?” I ask, remembering Grisholm’s favorite to win.

“He made it pretty far, but he blew himself up when he attempted to use an incendiary to take out a bridge in the ‘Up You Go’ challenge. He misjudged his fuse timer.” Hawthorne’s voice rumbles through his chest as I lie against it. It’s such a lovely sound—I could lie here forever and listen to him talk. “How did it go tonight?” he asks.

“Better than expected—and worse.”

“What do you mean? Will he help you keep Protium 445 off your back?” he asks anxiously.

“He’ll take care of them.” I kiss the fabric of his shirt over his chest. “Clifton is part of a secret club that plans to kill my brother. I don’t know how to stop them short of exposing them—and I need them, so you can see my dilemma.”

“He told you that?” Hawthorne asks incredulously.

“No. He said he wants to protect me should anything accidentally happen to Gabriel.”

“How do you know they’ll try to kill him?”

“I don’t, but it’s the logical next step. Secure me. Make me an ally. Take out the weak player. Put your ally in a position of power. It’s a good strategy. They just haven’t accounted for my mother. She’ll eviscerate them if she hears a hint of this Rose Garden Society.”

“If your brother dies without an heir, you’re firstborn.”

“It will never happen.”

“But if it did, you’d leave.”

“Theoretically, I’d have to return to Forge—to the Sword Palace.”

Hawthorne rubs his hand over my arm. It’s comforting. I had no idea how nice this could be, snuggling with him. His voice vibrates my ear. “I’ll be twenty next year—old enough to enter the Secondborn Trials. If I win, I could elevate to firstborn status.”

“That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard, Hawthorne.” I rise up on my elbow and glare at him. “Don’t ever say that to me again. Don’t even think it!”

“Why not? If I win, we’d never have to sneak around. We’d be able to be together. I could bring you with me. I could marry—”

“You could die for the entertainment of firstborns everywhere!” I snap. “One person wins The Trials. One. That’s it! One out of close to a thousand entrants—you have only the slightest chance of making it out alive!” I rest my cheek against his chest again. “I can’t do anything right now about the Rose Garden Society. I need Clifton’s help. I’ll have to rely on Mother to keep Gabriel safe.” He kisses the top of my head. “Hawthorne, I have something to tell you, but I don’t know how you’re going to take it.”

“What is it?”

“I did something good and bad. I meddled in your life.”

“What did you do?” he asks.

“Promise you won’t be mad.”

“I can’t promise that. You’re going to have to tell me what you did and hope for the best.”

“I gave Clifton a list of demands. One is that you be pulled off active duty and placed in pilot training—flying medical rescue airships. It’s dangerous, but it’s noncombat. You won’t have to kill anyone—you can save them instead.”

His hand stills. “How did you know that was a goal of mine?”

“I made Clifton give me access to your file. You made Meso—they plan on telling you next week.”

“You read my private files.” He sounds angry.

“Not all of them—and you’re not allowed to be mad about that.”

“Why not?” he growls.

“Because you’ve been watching me since you were a child without my permission.”

“True,” he mutters between tight lips. “But it feels wrong to be taken out of active combat duty when my entire regiment is still in it. They count on me.”

“I know—that’s why I pulled your closest friends, too.”

“So what’s the good part?”

“That was the good part, Hawthorne.”

He sighs. “What’s the bad part, then?”

“Clifton knows how to hurt me now—he can hurt you and that will hurt me. It was a risk. I don’t know if I should’ve taken it. I can’t see his next move yet.”

“You’re worried about what he can do to me? Aren’t you afraid they’ll get to you?”

“I don’t know who they are. Until I do, I’m vulnerable. You have to know that if you intend to be anywhere near me. I just made your life extremely complicated and incredibly dangerous.”