Rebel Born (Secondborn #3)(82)

“It’s complicated,” I say.

“How do you plan to talk to Hawthorne?” A subtle change is taking place in Reykin. He’s withdrawing. Not physically—he’s still holding my arm—but he’s not looking me in the eyes. His are hooded and . . . sad. I don’t understand. Emotions just aren’t my strong suit. I have a ton of them, but I don’t understand them.

“I have to go up to the surface and dry land to talk to Hawthorne,” I say. I point toward the sphere’s sky, where the rain’s turning into a fine mist. “Spectrum will completely lose interest in this world soon, if it hasn’t already. It’s going to take what it wants, then annihilate us on its way out.”

He nods, but I know he’s far from calm. Jagged fears must fill his mind, slicing him apart inside. “You can’t go to the surface until you figure out a way to resist Crow and Spectrum,” he insists. “When you do, we’ll go together. For now we should get some rest. I’ll walk you back.”

I refrain from telling him again that Crow is Spectrum and vice versa. He’ll get it eventually.

He lets go of me, and I instantly feel cold—bereft. I try to shake it off. After all, didn’t I just warn him to be vigilant around me—to not get close? I thought I meant it, but right now I’m not so sure. Aren’t I supposed to be evolving? Why do I have all these ridiculous emotions? Why this angst, and this raging libido?

Reykin ushers me across the street and along the path to Clifton’s home in silence, lost in his own thoughts, which I need to remind myself not to reach out and capture. That . . . would be rude. My heart thumps wildly. The ache to do it—to shove my way into his mind—keeps breaking over me in waves.

When we finally reach my room, I hurriedly say, “Okay, well, thanks. Good night.”

I slip inside and close the door in Reykin’s face. I lean my forehead against the thick metal between us. And wait.

And wait.

Reykin’s still there. He’s not walking away. Why isn’t he walking away?

The door slides open again. He stands over me, so near that I shiver, yearning to snuggle into his heat. The intensity of his look—I hold my breath. It’s the look he had when I first met him on the battlefield. He was torn apart, as broken on the inside as he was on the outside.

“I’ve thought about what you told me—what this means,” he says, his voice soft. “Spectrum can create endless worlds with versions of you in all of them . . . but the only one I’ll ever want is standing before me now. It’s you, Roselle. It’s always you. It’s what’s in here”—his finger reaches out and touches my temple—“and in here.” He traces his finger to my heart.

His hand slides down my side, searing my skin beneath the silken fabric of my yellow dress. He catches my waist in a firm grasp. I’m instantly feverish. His other hand entwines in my hair.

He bends down, and his lips meet mine. “I love you, Roselle.” His urgent whisper muffles against the curve of my bottom lip. “Nothing and no one can replace you.”

He deepens our kiss, his tongue brushing mine. I wrap my arms around his nape. We cling together, an explosion of desire ricochets through my body, and a soft groan stirs from my throat.

His fingers react, clutching my hair. The golden comb tumbles out. Wet tendrils spill over my shoulder. Another rush of yearning pumps through my veins, quickening with every beat of my heart.

My need for him startles me. In my darkness and unending despair over the tragedy I’ve awoken to—and the unrelenting guilt for what I’ve done—I’d forgotten what it feels like to live, to be alive, to emerge from beneath a drowning pool of desolation and take a gasping breath.

Reykin is that breath. He’s air. I need him to survive.

He slips a silken strap of my dress from my shoulder. His mouth moves against my bare skin. Sensual lips savor my flesh. Goose bumps rise, and a heady hunger claws my insides. His arm moves under my knee. He lifts me up and cradles me against him. The door behind us closes automatically as he moves toward the bed. He sets me on my feet next to it.

I reach for the buttons of his shirt and undo the top one, and then the next, until the fabric parts, revealing his powerful chest. His scar—a thin, red line—cuts from his collarbone, down the side of his chest, and over the rippling muscles of his torso. Gently, I trace the scar with my finger. His skin quivers and his breath hisses as I trail lower, to the waistband of his trousers.

He draws closer. His hand moves to my other strap and slides it over my shoulder. The damp silk catches, and then the gown runs down my body like liquid and pools at my bare feet. My salacious undergarments remain. He exhales deeply and takes a step back, studying me. His aquamarine gaze caresses my curves. The scant, intricate fabric of my undergarments seems harder to take off than they were to put on.

I raise my eyebrow in challenge. Either this kind of undergarment isn’t new to him, or Reykin’s really good at puzzles. He reaches out and touches the small, sparkly jewel between my breasts. The fabric ignites like a fuse and burns away, without heat, in a puff of smoke, leaving me utterly naked.

I take a step nearer, but his hands go to my shoulders, staying me. “Let me look at you.”

I’ve been naked in front of soldiers, in locker rooms on Bases, more often than I care to think about. This is different. This is intimate.