Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(107)

Robb’s brow furrowed. “Screw fate. I’ll tear down the stars for you.”

For him? Even though Jax had to wear gloves, and could never brush his lips against Robb’s jawline without seeing the stars, never kiss Robb’s ears, or trace the lines of his body, or feel the heat that pulsed just beneath his skin, hot and red and wanting. Jax felt his throat tighten as tears pooled at the edges of his eyes. He didn’t cry. He never cried.

Robb took Jax’s hand, and kissed his gloved knuckles. “And lucky for you,” Robb added, “I’m not planning to ever die, so you don’t have to worry about my stars.”

He laughed. “You make being mad at you hard, ma’alor.”

“I plan on making it impossible,” replied Robb, and raised an eyebrow. “What does ma’alor mean?”

Jax chewed on his bottom lip. “It means . . .” But he couldn’t bear that sort of embarrassment, so he simply leaned into the Ironblood and kissed him. Savoring the moment, the unknowingness of it all.

Until new images came flooding across his senses like a wave of darkness across the stars.





Hive


The Royal Guard patrolling the door jumped when he approached. “Sorry, sir, this is a private Iron Council meeting—”

“I am expected.” He grabbed the woman by her chin and flicked her head to the left. There was a crack, and she slumped to the floor.

Inside the meeting, the poor Ironbloods were bickering about who would next wear the crown. They sat around a glass table, either too young to remember the face he wore, or too old to care. All the great heads of family were there—well, the ones who were left.

There were no video feeds of the massacre. There were no reports. The HIVE had successfully altered or wiped all accounts from the feeds. The survivors would not be believed. The HIVE would see to that. More importantly, no one knew his face—at least, not outside of history books.

The only thing left of that day was the blood he could not seem to get out from underneath his nails, and a creaking in his shoulder.

He straightened his black suit as he came into the Iron Council meeting, his hair pulled back loosely with a silver tie.

The Iron Crown gleamed in the middle of the table.

Some of the Ironbloods tucked their rust-stained fingers into their laps; others clenched their fists. He smirked. They’d all tried to wear the crown. Pity none of them could.

“Who are you?” asked Lord Carnelian, the arrowhead markings under his eyes faded with age.

“I wish to test the crown,” he told the council. “Perhaps the Goddess has chosen me.”

“That still doesn’t tell us who you are,” replied a young woman with strawberry blond hair and light eyes—the Wysteria girl. The one who danced with Ana. Her fingertips were the only ones not rusted. She had not tried to wear the crown. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“What house do you hail from?” asked another young Ironblood. Blue eyes, curly black hair. The eldest Valerio—Erik.

He took the pendant from around his neck, and tossed it onto the table. The half-melted Valerio crest rolled to a stop. There were only four known in the kingdom.

Erik Valerio prickled. “I don’t recognize you. Who are your parents? You don’t even look like a Valerio.”

He turned his eyes blue like an Erosian sky and lifted his gaze. “Are you sure?”

Erik Valerio stiffened. “It doesn’t matter. They’ve decided on me. The Grand Duchess—”

“Does not speak for the Goddess,” he interrupted. “And bless her stars, she is no longer with us.”

There was a murmur through the council as they shifted in their seats, weighing his words.

He flourished his hands toward the crown. “May I?”

Erik Valerio opened his mouth to object when two other Ironbloods slid the crown, sitting on a pillow of crushed velvet, to the end of the table. They watched him with unease—with the exception of the Wysteria girl, who looked as though she had finally placed his face. No matter. The HIVE’s sweet song was loud and strong, drowning out the roaring, horrible sound of the shadow he used to be.

And he reached for the iron crown.





Ana


At first, she thought she was dreaming.

The Dossier’s infirmary was quiet and bright, the place she always felt safest, but she couldn’t quite remember how she’d gotten here.

Slowly, she pulled her legs over the side of the bed and felt the cold tiles under her feet.

Where was everyone?

She tried to stand, but pain throbbed in her stomach, and she remembered—the palace, the HIVE, Di. She had her dagger pressed against his ribs, and she knew where to aim, where to slice, but she . . .

She couldn’t.

And he ran her through. He—

The steady blip of her heart monitor began to quicken and skip, until she tore the patches off her neck and the beeping went silent.

A whirring overhead caught her ears, and she glanced up to find E0S in the corner.

“What’re you doing here?” she asked, her voice tight and scratchy, as if she hadn’t used it in a while. The bot turned and floated over to her, sinking onto her lap, and she noticed something small in its retractable arms. “What do you have there?”