Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(54)

He shakes his head. “I don’t. Hammon doesn’t.” Putting toothpaste on his toothbrush, he turns around and scowls at the males still watching me behind us. “Show’s over. Go on now.” The men laugh, telling him to lighten up. They push each other around before dispersing.

“I didn’t know,” I mutter, embarrassed. “We do things differently at home. Every woman shaves or waxes her legs and her armpits—all the aristocracy does it. Do you find it disgusting?”

“No.”

“They think it’s disgusting though, right?” I wish someone would tell me these things before I make an ass of myself.

“Roselle, you just made their top-five lists,” he says, pointing in the direction of the other soldiers. “Honestly, you were probably on that list anyway, but now it’s a safe bet you’re number one.”

My nose wrinkles. “What’s a top-five list?”

“You don’t want to know. Rest assured, they find you the opposite of disgusting.”

I gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. “All right. I’ll just go—”

“Change in the bathroom—yeah, that’s actually a good idea.”



Hawthorne is in his uniform when we meet later at my locker. Tossing my long hair into a ponytail, I tuck it into the neckline of my undershirt. My clingy under-armor attire doesn’t leave much to the imagination, and Hawthorne’s eyes rove over me. My cheeks flush with color. He looks away, reaching past me to retrieve the armor from inside my locker. His arm brushes up against my breast. I bite my lip and move back, giving him more room.

“Excuse me,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I assure him. “Thank you for doing this.” My fingers tangle together nervously. “I’ve never used this kind of combat gear before.”

“It’s no problem.” He inhales deeply, then leans close and sniffs my hair. “You don’t smell like a soldier,” he jokes. His nose brushes my neck.

“Oh.” My blush turns to one of embarrassment. “They gave me this special detangler because they wouldn’t let me cut my hair.”

“Why wouldn’t they let you cut your hair?”

“Oh, you know—I need permission from Admiral Dresden, Clifton Salloway, or Agent Crow in order to change how I look.” Admitting my total lack of freedom regarding my own body is humiliating.

Hawthorne’s jaw ticks.

“So, how does this work?” I ask, gesturing to the combat suit, changing the subject.

He shows me, and it’s ingenious. A catheter lines the interior of the armor for long missions. He describes how to position the collector so that I don’t wet myself and how to change it when it becomes necessary. I step into the suit, sans catheter. Armor plates run over my calves, thighs, torso, and arms. Hawthorne tightens my elbow buckles, tugging on my armor like he’s trying to protect me. I want to lean into him, gently brush my lips against his. He has no idea.

Hawthorne pulls the armor breastplate from my locker. “You can put this on a couple of different ways,” he explains. “I usually unclip the right buckle of the waistband, shrug into it, putting my head through this hole, and secure the waistband clip. Some soldiers lift the breastplate over the head, and then tighten both the waistband clips. Whatever works for you.”

I do it the way he does it. The wide armor-plated straps hang on my shoulders, holding the armor in place. I secure the right clip of the waistband. He tugs on the belt to cinch the waist, hands me a headset, and passes me a helmet. It fits me like it was made for me. The visor clicks out in sections to cover my face.

Hawthorne hands me elbow-length gloves and a fusion-powered rifle. He steps back from me and admires his handiwork. “Goodness, Roselle. You look like a soldier!”

“I am a soldier.”

He pulls a tin of wax from his pocket. “Rub this on all the shiny parts of your armor. Some of the clips need to be dulled down so that they don’t reflect light and give away your position. Don’t go using it on your legs. I only have this little bit.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Very funny.”

“Ration rotation happens in ten. I’ll wait here for you while you change.” He leans against the lockers and crosses his arms.



Dining in the air-barracks is as informal as you can get, just bins of premade food in foil packages. We line up for the bins. There isn’t much to choose from. I pick up a red foil package and begin to read the label, but Hawthorne snatches it out of my hand and tosses it back in the bin. “Don’t eat that. Remember: ‘Red for a reason.’ Here.” He thrusts a green foil package into my hand.

Hawthorne takes two of everything except the red package.

Tables and chairs occupy most of the room. We spot Gilad, Hammon, and Edgerton at one. I follow Hawthorne to the table and sit down next to Edgerton. Hawthorne sits beside me. I strip off the long plastic spoon from the foil pouch, tear away the top of the foil, and stir the contents—creamy chicken salad.

Hawthorne hands me a package of rolls. “It’s better with these.”

I take one. “Thank you.”

“Why’s she here, Hawthorne?” Gilad growls.

“She’s hungry,” he replies.

“All you’ll get from her is trouble,” Gilad grumbles. He’s not wrong.