Warcross (Warcross #1)(71)

Then, abruptly, a needle of a foreign emotion slices through our raging tempest, a thread of worry from him. To my disappointment, Hideo leaves one last kiss against my skin. He sighs, murmuring a faint swear against my ear, and pulls away. I’m left feeling suddenly cold, still reeling from what just happened. Slowly, I prop myself up on my elbows and stare at him. He helps me up, then lets his hands linger on mine for a moment. The Link between us settles into place, quivering, until it is calm and quiet again.

“I’m getting you into more than you bargained for,” he finally says.

I frown at him, my own breath still short. “Well, I’m not complaining.” I lean closer to him. “I will find Zero. I’m going to finish the job you hired me for.”

He looks at me for another moment, then shakes his head and smiles. The careful shield he always keeps around him has fallen away, leaving an inner layer of him exposed. There’s something he wants to tell me. I can see the war on his face. “I won’t keep you any longer tonight,” he says. His heart retreats behind the shield again. “Your teammates probably want to celebrate with you.” And with that, he reaches up and disconnects our Link. The sudden absence of his subtle undercurrent of emotions and the echo of his voice in my mind makes me feel emptier. A tiny button lingers in the corner of my vision, something I can tap to reconnect us.

I try to nod along so that he can’t see the disappointment on my face. “Right,” I mutter. “Celebrate. I’d better head back.”

He kisses my cheek. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says. But even as he pulls away, I know that the space between us has changed permanently.

I nod, as if in a dream, as if I can’t stop taking this drug. “Yes.”





22



In the following days, the other official teams have their first round of games. The Andromedans defeat the Bloodhounds in record time, their world set in a maze of fiery catacombs. The Winter Dragons beat the Titans in a trap-filled jungle. The Stormchasers beat the Royal Bastards in the neon streets of a futuristic spaceport. The Gyrfalcons advance against the Phantoms, the Castle Raiders beat the Windwalkers, the Cloud Knights destroy the Sorcerers, and, much to everyone’s surprise, the Zombie Vikings defeat the Sharpshooters.

I watch and analyze each of the games along with my teammates. I train with them as the second round of games begins. We beat the Stormchasers in a blitz of a second round, where Asher and the Stormchasers’ captain, Malakai, faced off one-on-one at the top of an isolated tower while the rest of us fought our way up the tower’s sides.

Every day, I pore through a bunch of data on the other players. I look for more signs from Ren as he moves around the dorms. He doesn’t make eye contact with me. I wonder if he knows.

At night, I dream I’m in Hideo’s bed, tangled in his sheets, my hands running along his bare back, his hands gripping my hips. I dream that someone breaks into his home as we sleep, that I stir beside him to see a faceless figure in dark armor standing over his bed. I picture the news the next morning, broadcasting Hideo’s death. I jerk awake, gasping.

? ? ? ? ?

Good morning, beautiful.

I wake up to a dark, stormy day outside and Hideo’s message on my phone. The light in my room is blue-gray, and my heart is pounding from another night of restless dreams. I read his message several more times before I’m sure that he’s alive and well, and then I flop my head back against my pillow and sigh, weak with relief. A small smile lingers at the corners of my lips at his words.

Morning.



Then I sit up, pull on my shirt, and head to the bathroom to put in my lenses. When I return, a request is blinking in my view, asking if I want to Link with Hideo. I agree, and a moment later, a virtual Hideo is in my room, still bare-chested and in the middle of pulling on his own shirt. I grin, tempted to tell him to just leave it off. He pours himself a cup of coffee while his dog waddles around his legs in a happy circle. It’s pleasantly strange to see Hideo in a way no one else does—boyish, relaxed, wholly vulnerable, hair rumpled and wet from a shower, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. The pale light coming in through his windows highlights the edges of his hair and face.

He smiles when he sees me. “Before you ask,” he says, nodding off to the side where I can’t see, “my bodyguard is standing right by the door.”

I smile back and shake my head. “Glad you’re finally taking your safety seriously.” Then I sober. “I don’t suppose you’ve thought more about leaving Tokyo?”

Hideo sips his coffee. “Second rounds start this week. If I’m not there, people will start to ask questions.”

I sigh. “Just . . . think about it. Please?”

A bodyguard calls to him. Hideo turns his head slightly. “Mr. Tanaka,” reads my translation. “Reporters are ready for your interview.”

Hideo gives his bodyguard a subtle nod of his head. “In a moment,” he says. He walks toward me until we’re separated by inches, and then leans down toward me. If he were standing in my room right now, I could probably feel his breath stir against my neck. “I promise I’ll think about it,” he murmurs. “But you have to understand how hard it is when you are still here in the city.”

My toes curl, and I shiver with pleasure. Through our Link, I can tell that my emotions are reaching him in ripples. You’re hopeless, I think to him.