Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(53)

We step off the heartwood onto a training deck. A track spans its circumference. Soldiers stop talking as we pass, their eyes on me.

“I see what you mean,” Hawthorne says. “It won’t last forever. The regiment will get used to you, and then they’ll stop paying attention.”

Hawthorne and I keep pace for the first fourteen miles. It feels right to run after days of not training. I haven’t had a decent workout since I left the Sword Palace—since I lost Dune. We pass other runners, but no one passes us. In the final mile, Hawthorne pulls away from me. I try matching his stride, but it’s impossible, and he beats me by a hundred yards. He has the decency to breathe hard afterward. I have to pinch my side.

“You don’t lose often . . . do you?” he asks.

“I believe . . . you went easy . . . on me.” I give up trying to play it cool and hobble around outside the track, staring up at the black ceiling and panting like I might die. “That last mile . . . was painful.”

Sweat dripping from his face, Hawthorne offers me a towel. “I have something I want to show you.” He guides me to the other side of the deck. “We’re close to the Vahallin Sea. We’ll fly low, near the water. Do you feel us descending?”

He motions for me to wait, goes to a small compartment door, and unlatches it. He slides the door open, securing it from closing with a hook. Wind whips around us. He holds out his hand to me. I inch toward him, my hair pulling free in wisps from its stays. The wind is so loud that I’d have to scream to be heard, so I don’t even try. I grasp Hawthorne’s arm and cling to it. I long to explore the world drifting by beneath us, knowing I’ve squandered my existence by never having trudged through these green fields dotted with sheep.

We fly over a cliff, the land falls away abruptly, and the Vahallin Sea moves as if it’s breathing. Its scent is a primal thing, bringing tears to my eyes, as if some ancient part of me remembers it—knows what it feels like to swim in its depths, its vastness.

Hawthorne taps my shoulder. I look up at him, tears on my cheeks. He brushes them away with his thumb, then takes my hand and helps me up, sliding the door closed.

“That was—” I have no words to describe it. “Thank you.”

“It’s nice to share it with someone.” I nod, my throat tight. “C’mon,” Hawthorne says, “I could use a shower.” My eyes widen. “I don’t mean together.”

“Oh.”

We make our way back up to Section Black. At my locker, Hawthorne asks, “Have you put on your combat armor yet?” I shake my head no. “Okay, when you’re finished with your shower, put these on.” He indicates the tight black shirt and leggings that go beneath the armor. “I’ll show you how to armor up.”

Hawthorne walks away. I gather the special shampoo and detangler that Emmy had requisitioned for me, a razor and shaving cream from the shelf of supplies available to everyone, and a towel from the stack. Then, following Hawthorne, I find that his locker is two rows over from mine.

I peek around the corner. Hawthorne strips off his sweaty T-shirt. His broad shoulders and back muscles bear witness to his intensive training. His skin is perfection. His training trousers hang low on his narrow hips—so low I get a glimpse of the two dimples just above his rounded backside. I back away, my cheeks burning. He’s right, I am weird, and right now, I wish he had an ugly mole.

An empty shower closet isn’t hard to find at this time of day. I step inside one, close the door, and lock it. I strip off my clothes and turn the water on by scanning my moniker. I only get five minutes.

But five minutes isn’t long enough. I finish shaving one leg, sans water. After towel drying my hair, I wrap the damp cloth around my body, exit the shower closet, toss my dirty clothes in the clothes chute, and run my fingers through the tangles in my wet hair. Rows of sinks are located near the lockers. Putting toothpaste on my toothbrush, I begin brushing my teeth in front of one. Two buttons are on a panel near the side of the mirror. Above them, a label reads “dryer.” I push the top one. Warm air blows down on me, drying my hair. Soft waves form as I run my fingers through it. On a shelf behind me are grooming supplies—razors and shaving cream. I take a new razor and some shaving cream to finish shaving my leg properly.

I set the items on the edge of the sink. With my toothbrush still in my mouth, I bend over at my waist, flipping my hair over so that the underside can dry. Running my hands through it, I feel the curls loosening. Reaching for the shaving cream, I rub some on my ankle before pulling the razor across it. I rinse the blade in the sink without looking up, and then drag it across my skin again. Large feet stop right next to me. I flip my long hair out of my face and look up. Hawthorne is there, with just a towel wrapped low on his hips. He is knee-weakeningly handsome.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Bruwshing my teef,” I reply, my mouth full of foam. Beyond him, a group of male soldiers watches in fascination. I turn and spit. “What?” I ask Hawthorne’s reflection in the mirror.

“I meant what were you doing with that razor?”

“Shaving my legs. I don’t have wax to remove the hair, so—”

“I thought only Diamond-Fated women shaved their legs—models, and you know, feminine women, not soldiers.”

“No one here shaves their legs?”