Carve the Mark (Carve the Mark #1)(81)

She placed the tip of the knife against his arm, beside his second mark, with the hash through it.

“Ready?” she said. “One, two . . .”

On “two,” she dug in, merciless, with the tip of the blade. Then she found the little bottle in the drawer, with its brush. He watched her touch the dark liquid to his fresh wound with all the finesse of a painter at an easel. Sharp pain went down his arm. A rush of energy followed it—adrenaline—pushing out the aching, throbbing mess of the rest of him.

She whispered the name across his skin: “Suzao Kuzar.”

And he felt it, felt the loss and the weight and the permanence, just as he was supposed to. He allowed himself to find relief in the Shotet ritual.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not sure what he was apologizing for—being mean to her earlier, or everything that had happened since the challenge, or something else. He’d woken the day after the challenge to her sweeping up broken glass in the bathroom, and later, to her screwing the towel rack back into the wall. He didn’t remember ripping it off. Beyond that, he was startled to learn that she knew how to use tools, like a commoner. But that was Cyra, stuffed full of random knowledge.

“I’m not so jaded I don’t remember,” she said, eyes shifting away from his. “That feeling, like everything is broken. Breaking.”

She placed a hand in his, and lifted the other to touch his neck, lightly. He twitched at first, then relaxed. He still had a mark there where Suzao had choked him in the cafeteria.

Then she was moving her fingers back toward his ear, along the scar Ryzek had cut into his neck, and he was leaning into her touch. He was warm, too warm. They never touched like this. He never thought he wanted them to.

“You make no sense to me,” she said.

Her palm was on his face, then, her fingers curled behind his ear. Long, thin fingers with tendons and veins always standing at attention. Knuckles so dry the skin was peeling in places.

“All that has happened to you would make another person hard and hopeless,” she said. “So how . . . how are you even possible?”

He closed his eyes. Aching.

“Still, Akos, this is a war.” She brought her forehead to his. Her fingers were firm, fitted to his bones. “A war between you and the people who destroyed your life. Don’t be ashamed of fighting it.”

And then a different kind of ache. A pang of longing, deep in his gut.

He wanted her.

Wanted to run his fingers along her strict cheekbone. Wanted to taste the elegant birthmark on her throat, and to feel her breaths against his mouth, and to wind her hair around his fingers until they were trapped.

He turned his head, and pressed his lips to her cheek, hard enough that it wasn’t quite a kiss. They shared a breath. Then he pulled back, stood up, turned away. Wiped his mouth. Wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

She stood right behind him, so he could feel her body’s warmth at his back. She touched the space between his shoulders. Was it her currentgift that made his skin prickle at the contact, even through his shirt?

“There’s something I have to do,” she said. “I’ll be back soon.”

Just like that, she was gone.





CHAPTER 24: CYRA


I WALKED THE MAINTENANCE tunnels, my face pulsing. The memory of his lips against my cheek played over and over in my mind. I tried to stomp it down like a stray ember. I couldn’t kindle it and still do what needed to be done.

The path to Teka’s narrow closet of a room was complicated, and led me deep into the belly of the ship.

She answered my light knock in seconds. She wore loose clothing, and her feet were bare. She had tied a length of cloth over her missing eye instead of covering it with an eyepatch. Over her shoulder I saw her lofted bed with the makeshift desk under it, now clear of all screws and tools and wires, ready for her to move back to Voa.

“What the hell?” she said, and she dragged me into the room. Her eye was wide with alarm. “You can’t just come here without warning—are you crazy?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Whatever you’re going to do to my brother, you should do it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated. “As in, the day after today.”

“Last time I checked, that was the official definition of ‘tomorrow,’ yes,” I said.

She sat on the rickety stool by her desk, and set her elbows on her knees. I saw a flash of skin as her shirt fell forward—she wasn’t wearing a chest binder. It was strange to see her comfortable and in her own space. We didn’t know each other well enough to see each other this way.

“Why?” she said.

“Everything is disorganized the day we land,” I said. “The security system in the house will be vulnerable, everyone will be exhausted, it’s the perfect time to slip in.”

Teka frowned. “Do you have a plan?”

“Back gate, back door, hidden tunnels—those are all easy enough to get through, because I know the codes,” I said. “It’s only when we get to his personal rooms that the sensors require my blood. If you can get to the back gate at midnight, I can help with the rest.”

“And you’re sure you’re ready for this?”

A picture of Zosita was taped to the wall above Teka’s head, right over her pillow. Another picture was beside it, a boy who looked like her brother. My throat felt tight. In one way or another, my family was responsible for every loss she had suffered.