Golden Son (Red Rising Trilogy, #2)(125)

Gone is any semblance of resistance. All the guilt that kept me from betraying Eo with Mustang is swept away in the chaos inside me. All the guilt I have for knowing she is a Gold and I am a Red vanishes. I’m a man, and she’s the woman I want.

My hands find Mustang, pulling her body onto mine, shadowing the length of her legs to the swell of her waist. Long-suppressed hunger wakes in me. Filling me with heat, aching for her. All of her. Forget my restraint. Forget my sadness. This is all I need. I won’t run. Not this time. Not when I know how close I came to never seeing her again.

I peel apart her clothing with slow force. Under my hands, the fabric is like wet paper. Her skin is smooth, hot marble warmed in the sun. Muscles coil and tense underneath as she arches her back. Hers is a body made for movement, mocking, coiling around mine. I trace my fingers along the curve of her lower back. She pushes into me, pulsing with breath, hips grinding me into the bed.

It may have been a week to her, but for me it was minutes, seconds ago that I kneeled against cold steel warmed by my own blood, waiting for men to cut off my head. This a moment I thought I would never have again as I dug Eo’s grave with my own trembling hands. A moment with a woman I want and love. And what is the bloodydamn point of surviving in this cold world if I run from the only warmth it has to offer?





44

The Poet

I walk slowly down the stone hall with Mustang. Out the windows, guards patrol the estate. They’re here to keep us as much as protect us. Rain falls lightly. Laughter drifts out an open door with the smells of coffee and bacon.

“What do you mean I can’t be funny?” Roque asks, offended.

“Just that,” Daxo says smoothly. “I’m sure you can try, but you’re too … scholastic.”

“Fine then, who was the first carpenter?”

“Is this a joke?” Daxo asks.

“It’s intended to be.”

“Jesus of Nazareth …?” Daxo guesses. “It is a history joke, yes?”

“Noah?” Pebble tries. Mustang and I pause outside the door, smiling to one another.

“Jesus of Nazareth?” Roque laughs. “You can do better than that.”

“If I knew I’d be mocked for guessing, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Pax said you were the smart one,” Thistle says. “Disappointing, Daxo. Disappointing.”

“Well, in comparison, he probably—” Clown begins. “Ow!”

“Don’t talk shit about Pax,” Pebble snaps. “Big man was a sweetie.”

“Does no one care about the answer?” Roque asks melodically. “Fine. Fine. I understand. You all think I’m a bore.”

“We’re dying to know,” Thistle snaps. “Do tell.”

“Who was the world’s first carpenter?” Roque asks again.

“You don’t have to start all over!” Pebble moans.

“Well, it works best that way.” Roque sighs. “Eve.”

“Eve?” Daxo asks.

“Because …,” Roque leads. “She made Adam’s banana stand?”

A collective moan.

“That’s just embarrassing,” Pebble says with a sigh. “Never thought I’d miss Tactus.”

Then a high-pitched whining laugh springs out of Daxo. Just like Pax. “Eve! Eve, he said. Banana stand. Ahh.” It’s like the giants have little ridiculous elves inside them just waiting to spring out and cackle. Just takes a lot of provocation.

“I think he broke Daxo,” Pebble giggles.

“Does anyone smell that?” Clown asks.

“I smell bacon,” Daxo tries. There’s a crunch as he bites into a piece.

“No,” Clown says. “Smells like a suicidal madman recently risen from the dead after conquering a planet and abandoning his friends to get himself cut to gory ribbons like a slagging fool.”

Daxo sniffs. “That’s a particular scent.”

“Oh, Darrow dear,” Clown calls. “Are you lurking behind the door?”

Mustang pushes me out awkwardly.

“You eavesdropping Pixie!” Daxo glides to his feet and pulls me into a surprisingly gentle hug. The golden angels on his bald head glitter in the morning light. “Glad to see you, my friend.”

They all greet me in turn. More hugs than I’ve ever received from Golds. Roque hugs me mechanically. A perfunctory gesture. There is still mending to be done.

I gorge myself on breakfast as my friends banter. We spend the day on the property, whiling away time in conversation and games. It’s been so long since I’ve had either that I’ve nearly forgotten how to do nothing. Mustang has to kiss my ear and tell me to relax three times before it really sticks. We’re in the library listening to music when she sees Roque out the window on the lawn. She nudges me.

“Go.”

I find Roque watching a pair of deer eat from a feeder underneath an old elm. He doesn’t turn to look at me as I sidle up next to him. It smells like fresh-cut grass. The sea somewhere over the hill.

“It makes sense this is where Mustang grew up,” I say. “It’s wild and tranquil all at once.”

“My home was in the city,” Roque says. “Though I snuck off to the country with my tutors whenever Mother was away. Which was often. She seemed to think there was nothing out here worthwhile. That the business of cities was more important than this. But this why we fight, isn’t it?”