Secondborn (Secondborn #1)(62)

Back at the hangar, I lean against the airship wall, feeling the warmth of Hawthorne’s hand next to mine. All the other soldiers have left the aircraft. It’s just Hawthorne and me who remain. Our fingers touch. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

“How did you find me?”

“Commander Aslanbek gave me clearance to track your moniker.” He probably thought I was dead. My moniker didn’t move for a long time out there. But Hawthorne fought to find me anyway.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

His hand moves to cover mine. I wince and cradle it in my lap.

“You’re hurt.” Hawthorne tries to look, but I won’t let him touch it.

“I’ll get it looked at later,” I reply. The crest etched into the hilt left its mark, and it will be like a death warrant for the Gates of Dawn soldier and his family if my regiment discovers it. It was monumentally stupid of him to use his family fusionblade in combat, or else extremely arrogant. If I ever see him again, I’ll sticketh my boot up his ass.

Hawthorne’s voice is soft. “Do you know what went through my mind when I found out that they took you in the middle of the night and dropped you off somewhere on the battlefield, Roselle?” I shake my head. His expression turns bleak. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s it, then. She’s gone. She won’t survive that. They’ve figured out a way to kill her as some kind of sick revenge against her mother, and now my life will go back to normal.’” He scowls. “Then I started imagining you on the battlefield—abandoned. Alone.” His teeth clench. “I had this pain—this unbelievable ache in my chest. I didn’t know why at first, but I do now. I used to worry about active duty because I might be killed. Now I’m terrified that it’ll be you who dies out there, and I’ll have to go back to a life without you in it.”

“You hardly know me, Hawthorne.”

“I’ve been in love with you since I was ten, Roselle . . . maybe even before that.”

I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ve watched you forever—for as long as I can remember.”

Disappointment rises in me. “I’m not that person you grew up watching, Hawthorne. I mean, I was her, but ever since I left home and Transitioned, I’m not her anymore. She’s not me.”

“You’re right. You’re not her. You’re better. You think for yourself, and you never back down when you believe you’re right. And you’re not perfect, like they made her seem. You have flaws, but your flaws are sexy. You’re na?ve and jaded, smart and gullible, ferocious and delicate. Men will break themselves against your fragile smile.”

“And you? Will you break, too?” I ask, a little breathless.

“I’m already broken, Roselle.”

His hand reaches over to cup my cheek. For a moment, his warm fingers rest on my nape, his thumb brushing my skin. I’ve lost the ability to breathe, as if the air is too thin. His face is half in shadow. He leans closer.

Something rattles outside the airship. Hawthorne drops his hand from me. We move apart, afraid to be seen. Another airship is landing in the hangar. We peek through the open door. Twilight soldiers are waiting outside. I recognize a few, Carrick among them. Tolman is with him.

“I know them, Hawthorne,” I whisper. “They sent me to the front line this morning.”

Hawthorne points with two fingers, first to his eyes, then toward the front of our airship. I nod and follow him to the cockpit. He switches on an audio feed that picks up voices from outside our airship.

“Why is that St. Sismode brat still breathing my air?” an angry voice barks.

“She got lucky. We’ll take her again tonight,” another voice responds. “No way she survives a second time.”

“I want you to deliver a dead secondborn to me!” the first voice screams. “It has to look like the Gates of Dawn are responsible. Contact me when you have her body. I’d like to deliver it personally.”

The door of the other airship closes, and the gathered Twilight soldiers move away. Hawthorne is the first to speak. “I’ll take care of it, Roselle. I have friends. I’ll reach out to everyone in our unit who ever owed me a favor.”

“That was a commander. This goes higher up than even him. You can’t help, Hawthorne. I’ll think of something. They cannot suspect that we know or they’ll act sooner.”

“They’re going to act tonight!”

“Then I’ve got time.”



When I get back to my capsule, I decide I have no other option but to talk to Clifton Salloway. I search my moniker for his contact information. Surprisingly, he’s not listed under “Inter-Fate Playboy” or “Panty-Dropping Smile.” I’m forced to resort to Salloway Munitions. I expect some kind of secretary, but I’m linked directly to the man himself.

“Roselle St. Sismode. What a pleasure it is to see you.” His good looks shine through even in holographic form.

“We need to meet.”

“Would this be for business or pleasure?” He grins.

“Business.”

“Pity,” he sighs.

“I have a proposition. When can we speak?”

“How about this evening? I’m en route to Twilight now. We can discuss your proposition at my private quarters on the Base.”