We follow the illuminated path through the gardens. “Tell me about your house,” I urge, trying to think about anything other than the ache in my side.
“The original house was a gift to my great, great—I don’t even know how many ‘greats’—grandfather, from The Virtue of a few hundred years ago for some act of bravery. My father went on and on about it when I told him I was coming here to get away from Forge for a while.”
“What act of bravery?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.”
“Hawthorne,” I chide him.
Hawthorne’s expression turns stormy. “My father didn’t care what happened to me for the past ten years, and now he wants my attention?” His jaw tightens. “Now he wants me to care how we got a pile of stone and mortar—like it means something? It doesn’t. It’s all just stuff—possessions. You and I never needed any of this—we had each other.”
All this time that I’ve been struggling with the loss of him, he’s been doing the same and trying to adjust to a life and a family that never wanted him. “You’re right. They can have only what you want to give them and nothing more.” We take a few more steps. “But”—Hawthorne slows—“I’m not sure they’re entirely to blame. They didn’t make the laws.”
He resumes a faster pace. “No. They just follow them unquestioningly.”
The front of the house is a gigantic open archway with no doors. A security field of soft golden light shines down from the keystone. Up-lighting from the base of the structure makes it look like some monster about to swallow us whole in the moonlight. I’m able to pass through the security field with Hawthorne because of his moniker. Had I been alone, it may not have allowed me access.
On the other side of the entryway, the floor is made of rough black slate with fossilized pyrite swords embedded in the stone. The foyer branches off in several directions, taking different paths. The ceilings are a couple of stories high with a gallery and a clerestory above the nave-like entrance. Skylights glow with moonlight.
It’s obvious that the exterior walls were once made of ornate stone, but some have been replaced by invisible, open-air security fields so that the outside merges with the inside, a connection with nature. It’s fascinatingly beautiful, and so different from where we come from, Hawthorne and me. We lived in a windowless, tree-shaped fortress and air-barracks, hardly ever seeing the outside unless we were fighting or mobilizing. Now his house is literally a part of the landscape.
A sleepy-looking secondborn with a brown mountain range moniker enters the foyer. He stops short when he sees us. His hand moves to the side of his head in an “oh dear” gesture. “Sir?” he says.
“Send a medical drone to my quarters, Ashbee,” Hawthorne orders.
“Would you like a tray as well?” Ashbee inquires, eyeing the smudges our dirty feet have left on the slate floor.
“Yes. Thank you. Just send it with a mechadome and go back to bed.”
“Very good, sir. Will our guest be staying for the evening?”
“Good night, Ashbee,” Hawthorne replies.
Hawthorne takes me to his quarters at the back of the house on the main floor. His bedroom is nearly barren, except for a very large bed and a couple of large wingback chairs. There are only three “solid” walls. A fourth side is open to the outdoors. The seating stands in front of this nonexistent fourth wall. Without the lights on, it’s easy to see outside. The view of the lake is gorgeous in the moonlight.
“Someone stole your wall,” I murmur.
Hawthorne snorts with laughter. “There’s a wall. It’s an invisible security field. You can’t walk through it unless you have my moniker or you’re touching me. It allows in the breeze but keeps out the bugs.” A warm wind blows in off the lake outside. In the distance looms a wilderness of trees. I hear their leaves rustling and the sound of the frogs and insects chirping. I’m unaccustomed to it, but it appeals to me on a visceral level. “Low light,” Hawthorne orders. Dim illumination pushes away the darkness.
Hawthorne shows me to the attached bathing area. An array of automated white candles flames to life as we enter. At the far end of the chamber, a huge claw-footed tub sits on a floor of limestone. The outside wall has been removed here as well, replaced by an invisible security field. Smooth river stones and stepping stones lead to a walled garden beyond. Flowering trees and topiaries offer some privacy, but the starry night is perfectly unobscured.
Hawthorne lets go of me. I lean against a stone countertop by a sink while he goes to the tub. It has a spout on either end. One is for water, and the other, to my surprise, is for ice. He turns them both on. Cold water streams from the tap. Ice is dispensed and floats on the surface. “I prefer hot water,” I say with a frown.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “This is better for your ribs. I’ll give you some anti-inflammatory tablets and a bone refortification injection, but nothing works like ice.” He trails his hand in the frigid water.
“That looks like pure torture,” I reply.
A small smile tugs at his lips. “It’s a far cry from the showers in Tritium 101.” I think of the air-barracks where we shared a locker room, when he was mine. It seems like another lifetime, wholly disconnected from this one.
Behind me, the medical drone hovers in the doorway. Its long bullet-shaped body is just narrow enough to fit through the wide doorway. Soundlessly, it creeps into the room. Hawthorne programs it to scan me from head to toe. Because it’s a private device, it doesn’t need to interface with my moniker.
Its readouts indicate that two of my ribs are, indeed, fractured, and I have multiple contusions riddling my body. Two syringes of medication are injected into my side, followed by a pain reliever. An anti-inflammatory is next, followed by skin regeneration therapy. After the drone is finished with me, Hawthorne allows it to tend to his injuries. He gets a spray of skin regenerator and a laser seal on the worst of his cuts and burns, then a bandage that covers his entire forearm.
“I can wrap your ribs after you soak in the ice. Do you need help?” he asks.
I try to reach my arms back to unlace my leather halter. I wince. “Yes. I need help,” I admit.
“First things first,” Hawthorne says. Retrieving scissors from a drawer, he gently lifts my hair and begins the arduous task of unbraiding it and cutting out the thorny vines. When he’s finished, he sets the scissors aside. Warm fingers brush my wavy hair away from my back and over my shoulder so he can get to the laces of my halter top. Slowly, he unties the strings. Heat flushes my cheeks at his touch. With the laces undone, the small scrap of leather covering my breasts falls away.
His hands encircle my waist from behind, unfastening my belt. The iron strap clangs against the floor. The leather of my pants is torn in several places, but it clings to me like a second skin. Strong fingers grasp the waistband on either side of my hips, tugging my pants down so I don’t have to bend. Hawthorne crouches behind me, easing them past my thighs and ankles. I step out of them.
Rising, Hawthorne stands behind me once more. Gently, he pulls my naked form against him, while his head bends to my throat. His lips are a whisper as he kisses my neck for a moment, and then his hand slides to my elbow, urging me toward the tub.
Goose bumps immediately break out on my flesh when I step into the water. “Hawthorne, this is completely sadistic.”
He chuckles and squeezes my elbow. “I promise I’ll warm you up when it’s over.” I lower myself into the water and hug my knees. After a minute, I force myself to lie back and rest against the slope of the tub. Hawthorne mumbles, “I’ll get you a robe.”
He leaves. The CR-40 begins to dissolve and peel from my hand. My silver moniker shines up, a sword slicing through the water. The crown-like shadow at the top of the sword appears to be riding on a cube of ice.
Hawthorne returns. My eyes devour him. He’s still shirtless, but he has changed from his Tyburn costume into a pair of long black pants. They hang loose on his hips, showing a deep V of ri
ppling muscles. The sight of him should be enough to melt all the ice in this bath, but I continue to shiver.
The pain is nearly unbearable. My lips must be bluer than when he pulled me from the lake. I sit forward, my hands gripping the edge of the bath. “Had enough?” Hawthorne asks. I nod, my teeth rattling. He unfolds a black silk robe and holds it out for me. I climb over the edge of the tub. Water drips off me onto the floor. His arms embrace me, threading mine through the robe’s sleeves, which are way too long.
“Is this y-your r-robe?” I ask, trying to stifle a frigid tremor.
“Yes.”
“Are y-you aware that you h-have m-monster arms?” I let the fabric dangle to illustrate my point.
He grins. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“They’re g-goonish.” I scrunch the fabric up so that my hands emerge. “I f-feel b-bad for y-you.”
“Maybe you have T. rex arms. Have you thought of that?”
“No one has m-mentioned it b-before.”
“I never wanted to bring it up. Can you sit on the edge of the tub?” he asks.
I nod, my teeth still chattering, and sit down with my back as straight as possible. From his pocket, Hawthorne extracts a bandage and a roll of medical tape. He kneels in front of me. Using a towel, he dries my chest and abdomen before wrapping the bandage around my rib cage and then binding it tight with the tape.
“This is old-fashioned,” I murmur. “They have laser fusion for broken ribs.”
Hawthorne grimaces. “I hate that surgery. I’d rather tape them. In my opinion, this hurts less. We used to do this instead of the invasive procedure at the Base. It takes longer to heal, though.” He pauses and his gaze meets mine. “I can’t do that surgery here. My medical drone isn’t equipped. I’d have to take you to a medical facility. Do you want me to?”
I frown. “No, they’ll separate us.”
“They’re going to do that anyway, Roselle. We’ll have to submit to questioning at some point, but I’m hoping to avoid it for as long as possible.”
“I’ve had the laser-fusion procedure done a few times. You’re right; it hurts like someone is soldering your guts. I’d rather you tape them instead.”
Hawthorne nods and resumes the work of bandaging my ribs. When he’s finished, he pulls the sides of the robe closed and ties the belt. His hands take mine, and he helps me to my feet. His fingers feel hot. The robe is too long. I look down at my hidden feet and the pool of fabric on the floor. “Giant,” I whisper.
His hands let go of mine. He cups my face and leans down to brush my lips with a tender kiss. “Your giant,” he whispers.
“Yes, my giant.” I deepen the kiss, even though my side aches unceasingly.
Sensing my pain, Hawthorne pulls away and takes one of my hands. We walk to his room. A tea urn, cups, and a tiered tray laden with petite sandwiches rest atop a hovering cart.
Hawthorne pours me a cup and offers it on a saucer. I ignore the saucer, lifting the delicate porcelain in my frigid grasp. It’s piping hot. I take a small sip, feeling its warmth all the way to my belly. He pours another cup for himself. We both devour the finger food, standing over the tray like heathens. A yawn escapes me.
Hawthorne takes my empty cup. With a hand on my back, he leads me to his bed. Gingerly, I climb in. I try to lie on my back, but it’s intolerable, so I turn onto my left side. There isn’t a comfortable position. “Do you want another pain reliever?” he asks. I nod. He gives me a tablet and some water. I swallow it and then lie back. Hawthorne settles in next to me, spooning me, careful to rest his arm on my hip instead of my ribs. The heat radiating from him is irresistible. I press my back firmly against his chest. He kisses my hair.
What we’re doing is a crime, a punishable offense. A secondborn in the same bed as a firstborn is even more taboo than two secondborns being caught together. Unless it’s a sanctioned encounter in a pleasure house—regulated, restricted to a one-time event, with no relationship or offspring resulting—it’s a violation of law. But this is intimacy. The deadliest crime. The penalty for me is much more severe than it would be for him. He’d pay a fine. I’d pay the price. The danger suits me. I thread my fingers through his.
“Missed you,” I whisper.
“I don’t sleep well without you. I keep reaching for you, but you’re never there.”
“I’m here now.”
“We need a plan.”
“I know.” I try to focus on the problem, to come up with a plan that allows me to stay with Hawthorne, but his snuggling is like a lullaby, and I can’t even find a way to stay awake.
Pressure on my side brings me up from a deep sleep. I want to ignore it, but the hand squeezes tighter. Pain brings my eyebrows together. I whimper. It’s hard to breath without my whole side aching. I open my eyes. It’s near dawn. The horizon is a bruising of light, blocked by a dark silhouette. I lift my head from the pillow, my vision blurs from exhaustion. Blinking a few times, my eyes focus.
Reykin is seated in one of the wingback chairs, blotting out the view of the lake. A tight black shirt and military-style pants highlight his formidable figure. I almost don’t see the black fusionmag resting on his lap. The golden light of his shooting-star moniker hides beneath a black leather glove. I haven’t seen him seethe with anger like this since I first encountered him on the battlefield. “Get your clothes,” he says.
Hawthorne, still spooning me, whispers in my ear, “Don’t move.” His hand on my hip is no longer heavy, but tense, poised.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Reykin. Fear wends its way through me. He clutches the weapon in his lap threateningly.
“I came to rescue you,” he says with the menacing ring of hard-fought patience.
“Rescue me?” My groggy mind stutters. It takes me a second to remember last night.
“Get. Your. Clothes.” Reykin doesn’t raise his voice, but it feels like he slapped me. I tense with a sick dread that he’ll hurt Hawthorne if I don’t obey him.
“Who are you?” Hawthorne snarls. “How did you get past my security?”
Reykin doesn’t answer him but continues to stare at me with barely controlled rage. I mutter, “It’s complicated, Hawthorne.” I raise myself up on my elbow and wince. My fingers go to my sore ribs, holding them, hoping to stave off the pain. It does little. I turn to Reykin. “Put your gun away.”
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t shoot him,” he replies. “Now get dressed. We’re leaving.”
“Hawthorne saved my life last night.”
“So you slept with him.” It’s not a question; it’s an accusation.
The rumble of Hawthorne’s deep voice contains its own barely restrained fury. “Who is this, Roselle?”
My eyes narrow at Reykin. I shift, moving my feet to the floor and sitting up with difficulty. My hair falls in my face. I bend at the waist, hoping to gain some relief, but it doesn’t help, so I straighten.
“Who are you?” Hawthorne roars at Reykin.
Instead of answering, Reykin asks him, “Did you tell her that you’re engaged?”
My gasp feels like a knife through the ribs, straight into my heart. Hawthorne’s jaw is rigid. I try to meet his eyes, but he won’t look at me. “I’m not engaged,” he denies.
“Oh no?” Reykin asks. “I just imagined that announcement this week in The Sword Social?”
I know the firstborn Star is telling the truth. He doesn’t lie to me.
“I didn’t agree to it.” Resentment is thick in Hawthorne’s tone. “My parents made that marriage contract without my consent. Fauna Kinwrig was my brother Flint’s fiancée. They think I have a moral obligation to fulfill that promise to her.”
Reykin’s blue eyes are unwavering. “That will be a difficult contract to break. The Kinwrigs are powerful. I’m sure they like the sound of Fauna Trugrave just a little too much, given what comes with the name.”
“Hard to break, but not impossible.”
“Do you know what would happen to Rose
lle, a secondborn, if she were found like this in your bed? They’d whip the skin off her back—and that’s just the beginning. And do you know what would happen to you?” He pauses. “Nothing. You’d get to live on and marry Firstborn Kinwrig.”
I get to my feet, unable to sit any longer. My ribs are aching, and my heart is breaking. I clutch my side and move toward the bathroom.
“Roselle!” Hawthorne calls.
“Don’t move,” Reykin orders him, raising the barrel of the fusionmag.
I enter the bathroom and close the door. My clothes are still on the limestone floor near the bath. Gathering them, I shrug the leather top over my bandaged ribs, pain stabbing in my side. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow. I refuse to call Reykin to help me. I don’t even know if he would. Instead, I reach behind me, holding my breath against the agony, and tie the laces myself. The pants are a little easier to manage. I don’t have my boots, but I’m not sure I could put them on anyway.
Glancing in the mirror, I’m not surprised to see deep-blue and -purple bruises on my shoulders and arms. Cuts from shattered glass and thorns still mar my skin, despite the round of skin regeneration therapy. In short, I’m a mess.
I rummage in a drawer near the sink, finding toothpaste. I rub some on the tip of my finger and clean my teeth. When I’m done, I use a smear of toothpaste to write the coordinates of my Halo Palace apartment on the mirror.
Both Hawthorne and Reykin are on their feet, sizing each other up, when I exit the bathroom. “Let’s go,” I order Reykin, holding my side. His eyes widen in surprise. I don’t think he realized the extent of my injuries. The black robe had covered a multitude of wounds. Now they’re a billboard on my skin.
“Roselle,” Hawthorne growls between clenched teeth. He doesn’t understand what’s happening here.
“It’s okay, Hawthorne.” I try to give him a reassuring smile. “He won’t hurt me. He’ll take me back to the Halo Palace where I’ll be protected. You don’t have to worry.”