Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(27)

Now he definitely was going to be spaced, jettisoned out and bounced against the wing tip of this shithole of a ship. Fear stung in his throat, feeling a lot like the telltale sign of tears.

The captain stared at him for a long moment and then sat back in her creaky leather chair. “We’ll be arriving in three hours to the Tsarina. Best you get some shut-eye before we get there.”

His fear became a cold knot in his stomach. “You’re . . . letting me live?”

“We aren’t all like you Ironbloods, Robbert Valerio. Sometimes, people make mistakes,” she replied, and his cheeks burned in embarrassment. She held out the iron ore. “But a word of warning: if you ever decide to take someone else’s last name again, make sure you don’t already have one first.”

Nodding, Robb took the ore, wrist burning from the chip. He should tell her about it—

But if he did, he would be off this ship faster than he could blink, and then he wouldn’t be any closer than he was before to finding his father. And besides, he was sure this terrifying captain and her crew could take on a few Valerio soldiers.

Of course they could.

Whoever his mother sent couldn’t be that close behind.

I have time, he told himself, and for the moment he believed it, his side aching a little more with each passing moment. It was a different kind of pain this time. Sore. Shuddering. It hurt to breathe. He put his hand against his side instinctively.

He escaped the captain’s quarters as quickly as he could, not seeing Ana eavesdropping by the doorway until it was too late. They collided, and the rock went skittering across the floor.

“Sorry—ow, ow, ow—” he hissed, clutching his wounded side, before he remembered the iron ore. “Shit, where did it—”

“This?” She picked it up.

“Oh, careful, it . . .” His words trailed off. The iron ore didn’t rust against her fingers.

A chill raced down his spine.

Was her hand artificial? It looked real enough, and a cut on her finger looked recent, freshly scabbed over.

He studied her, trying to jog some long-repressed memory from his childhood, waiting to recognize her—or for her to recognize him.

If the Tsarina had escaped—if his father had escaped . . .

He racked his brain to remember the princess. He’d always played with her older brothers, so their paths had never crossed much. Dark hair. Golden-brown eyes. Always running around barefoot.

He would have recognized her, wouldn’t he?

Ana eased away from him. “You okay?”

“I—I’m fine,” he quickly replied, looking away. It was just a trick. What were the odds? He shook his head, holding out his hand for the ore. “Just . . . wishing I wasn’t a Valerio right about now.”

Her mouth twitched. “At least you’ve got a last name.”

“You don’t?”

“The captain found me and Di in an escape pod. I don’t remember much.” She handed the ore back. Still, her fingers had no rust on them, while the ore left a trail of burnt red across his skin. “My parents were ship traders. The captain said they died in a mercenary attack.”

“Oh.” So she was not the lost princess. The princess had died—the entire royal family had. “I’m—I’m terribly sorry.” He put the ore back into his pocket, other hand still holding tight to his side, and leaned against the wall as she left for the crew’s quarters.

His head was buzzing too much to think, a jumbled, tumbling mess. There was a girl on this ship who didn’t rust. A ship merchant’s daughter who didn’t rust.

He sucked in another painful breath. Had he pulled a stitch?

Jax emerged from the stairwell, tugging his ponytail, until he noticed Robb leaning against the wall. He quirked a silvery eyebrow. “The captain let you off easy, did she?”

“Do you want a thank-you or something?”

“An apology will do.”

“Ha—is that all?”

His fingers were wet, but he didn’t want to draw his hand away. His side hurt so badly it brought tears to his eyes, but he would be damned if he cried in front of Jax. “You knew that if I stayed, the captain would give me another chance.”

“I wasn’t lying. I can’t lie.”

Robb pushed off the wall. “Is that the spiel you give every . . .” His head swam, words floating away. The ship tilted—or was it him? Weakly, he grappled for the side of the wall to steady himself, but his hand slipped against it, slick with blood.

Jax lurched forward and caught him by the arm before his face met the floor, and steadied him.

Everything was spinning. And smelled like lavender and blood.

He hated lavender. He wanted to hate it.

“You did pull a stitch—or twelve,” said the Solani, and it was strange because all cocky pretense was gone, leaving his voice soft and lilting—like a song. “Can you make it to the infirmary?”

Robb nodded, and the Solani helped him—slowly, with more patience than he would have thought—to the infirmary downstairs. The lights flickered on, so bright he had to squint. He hated infirmaries. Especially this one. He would be happy never to see it again. Jax helped him up onto the gurney and retrieved a medical kit, pulling Robb’s shirt up on one side.

Everything made him dizzy, so he trained his eyes on Jax’s gloved fingers as they pressed a piece of gauze against the wound, soaking up the blood seeping through the stitches. The Solani’s face was blank, his hair falling across his shoulder, reminding Robb of starlight.