Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(33)

“No. It’s my sword.” It’s the only tie I have left to my identity—my family. I’d rather fight and pay the consequences than back down. I lunge at Agent Crow.

Hawthorne is ready for my attack. My feet lift off the ground as he pins my arms behind me before I can touch Kipson Crow’s smug face. I struggle against him, and he wrestles me down onto the marble floor. My cheek hits hard and bounces. On bended knee beside me, Hawthorne grits his teeth. “Calm down, Roselle! You die if you hit him unprovoked in public. Be smart!”

I kick Hawthorne in the knee with the heel of my boot. It doesn’t hurt him through his combat armor, but his knee slips out from under him. He crashes to the floor beside me and loosens his grip on my arms. I shake free, but Gilad’s knee digs into the middle of my back, keeping me down. I throw my head back, connecting with Gilad’s nose. He moans and swears. Hawthorne tries to get up, but I pull him by the ear until his head hits the floor like mine did. The golden ring on my hand leaves claw marks across his cheek.

As I struggle, I almost have Hawthorne and Gilad off me, despite their size and weight. I crash back down, though, as Edgerton tackles me, too. The wiry soldier from the mountains of Swords gets my arms behind me once more. Everyone hangs on. Wrist restraints clamp onto me while Gilad and Hawthorne hold my legs.

Hammon gets down at eye level with me. Her brown ponytail sticks out from her helmet and sweeps the floor. “Look at me!” she orders. “You’ll survive this! We won’t let you die for a family that no longer wants you. You’re a secondborn Sword. You’re our family now!”

All I can do is pant, unable to take a full breath with their weight on top of me. Gilad and Edgerton slide off. Hawthorne hauls me to my feet by my wrist restraints. I refuse to cry out, even though it’s excruciating.

Agent Crow starts clapping. “This is so touching. What a little family unit you’ve become in such a short time.” He’s less than pleased, though. He wanted me to hit him.

Hawthorne shoves me into Gilad and Edgerton with a murderous look. They each take me by an arm and lift me off the ground, though I’m no longer struggling. They walk me out of the building while Hawthorne stays behind with Agent Crow, who calls out after me. “I’ll keep your sword safe, Roselle! Not to worry!”

Outside, the sunlight makes me squint. “Secure a hover,” Gilad growls to Hammon. She complies, asking the Tree valet to call a lightweight commuter hover for us. She motions for Gilad and Edgerton to bring me, and I’m half dragged, half lifted off my feet and pushed into the vehicle. Gilad and Edgerton place me between them, their broad shoulders squashing me. Hammon gets in and sits in the row behind us.

I taste blood on my tongue. I lick my lips. They’re bleeding. Hawthorne appears a few moments later. He gets into the front of the vehicle, throwing my leather jacket at me from over the seat. It hits my chest and falls to my lap. The sleeve of my blouse has torn at the shoulder, exposing my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing tears to recede. I open them when I have my emotions restrained. My throat aches with the effort.

“Sector 4-15. Tree 177,” Hawthorne hisses, touching the scratches I left on his cheek. His fingers go to the shell of his ear, presumably to feel if it’s still attached. The hovercar moves forward, navigating the traffic on its own.

Gilad wipes blood from his nose onto the sleeve of his combat armor. It doesn’t do much to stem the flow of it. He says nothing.

Edgerton chuckles. “You’re a spitfire, Rose—”

“Shut it!” Hawthorne orders, glaring at him from the front seat.

“Well, she is,” Edgerton mutters under his breath. He tosses the golden claw ring that I was wearing to Hawthorne. “Here, I got you a souvenir.” Hawthorne catches it and files it away in one of his armor compartments.

Not another word is spoken in the fifteen minutes it takes to travel to the concrete Tree. Gilad gets out of the commuter vehicle first, followed by Hammon. Edgerton makes a spinning motion with his fingers while he whistles. I turn and present him my back. He takes off the wrist restraints. I straighten in my seat and rub my wrists while he clips the cuffs back onto his combat belt, and then exits the vehicle.

I slide over to get out, but Hawthorne stops me. “A word, Roselle.” I pause, staring out the windscreen. He sighs in frustration. “Do you know the average life expectancy for a secondborn Sword from the aristocracy after his or her Transition Day?”

I don’t answer.

“It’s four weeks. That’s around thirty days. Do you know why they don’t last very long?”

I don’t answer.

“It’s because no one likes them. They’re unlikable. They usually don’t know how to do things, and they’re arrogant and lazy and expect things to be done for them. They believe their hardships are worse than everyone else’s. I can tell already that that is not you. You’re strong, capable, and you don’t complain. But you’re arrogant, and arrogance will get you killed faster than the other traits combined. Listen, I know what it’s like—”

“You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t have any idea what my life is like!” My throat constricts. “I know things you couldn’t possibly know. No one expects anything from you, Hawthorne, except for you to follow orders. Go where they tell you. Sit where they tell you. Sleep where they tell you. And you do everything they tell you, and when you do it well, you get merits.”