Heart of Iron (Heart of Iron #1)(62)

Do not think about it, he thought, absently touching the port at the nape of his neck, feeling the indentations, wondering what parts of him were less Metal, less wires, less data, and more . . .

More.

Because Ana meant something. He felt it. Deep, burning, dawning like a sunrise. Ana meant something and he was not sure what to call it. But it was something, and it was expanding.

It was a light.

The sails billowed out with a thunderous roar, catching the winds. The starshield lit up with their destination, a waystation nearby where they would drop off the Valerio guards and mend the sails. In the meantime, Di pulled up the feeds to search for some way—any way—to infiltrate the Iron Palace.

And survive.





Robb


He made his way through the palace toward Ana’s room, rubbing his aching wrist where his mother had pressed the tracking chip. She’d find a way to get Erik on the throne, even if it killed her.

And Jax . . .

His mother couldn’t have known what Jax meant to him—

Could have meant, he corrected himself.

He had screwed up more times than he cared to admit, and whatever he had felt on the Tsarina for Jax—whatever he had tasted in Jax’s words, felt against his lips—meant nothing if he could not fix this.

His mother was not going to win. Not this time.

As he hurried down the Messier-lined hallway, he began to form a plan. But it would take Ana’s help—if she ever forgave him.

Ana’s royal bedchamber was at the farthest end of the South Tower, well away from the skeleton of the North one where her bedchamber—and those of the rest of the royal family—used to be. Yellow lanterns bobbed above him, floating through the air like rafts on a river.

In the summers when he was a child, he’d run through the halls with the Armorov boys while their kid sister sat in her room, forbidden to run through the palace or dig in the garden. She was always separated from the rest of them. She was the Goddess—she wasn’t allowed to have a childhood.

But on the Dossier, everyone embraced her with open arms. They loved her—unconditionally. Not because she was the Goddess . . .

But because she was Ana.

Two Messiers stood by a door at the end of the hallway, ignoring the poor Royal Captain banging on the door.

“Your Grace!” Royal Captian Viera yelled. “I implore you to unlock the door!”

Robb pocketed his hands. “Is there a problem, Vee?”

Startled, the Royal Captain spun around to him—and scowled. “No, Lord Valerio. Everything is fine.”

“Yeah it is, so shove off!” came Ana’s reply on the other side. “Both of you!”

Robb couldn’t help but grin. “I see you have your hands full. I’ll come back some other time.”

“Please do,” Viera ground out, her cold eyes following as he turned to retrace his steps down the hall.

So, Ana had locked herself in her room, which meant either she wasn’t coming out—

Or she was planning an escape.

He needed to get to her before she tried that.

The hallways were vacant as he made his way toward the kitchen, where he dismissed the lone chef busily prepping food for the Grand Duchess’s dinner. He took a large napkin from a drawer, piled it full of foods in his immediate reach, tossed in two napkins with silverware, and tied it tightly into a makeshift basket.

Then he set off toward a small door hidden at the back of the kitchen. If he remembered correctly, the servants’ corridors led to all the suites in the palace.

He pushed on it with his shoulder, and the door swung inward to a narrow and dark corridor. Dust hung in the air like slow-moving snowflakes as he felt his way through the darkness until he came to what he hoped was the right door. He pressed his back against it. The wall gave way, and the door swiveled around into the room—

A pillow bounced off the wall beside him, clearly aimed for his head.

“It’s me!” he called, holding up the basket in surrender. “I brought food!”

Ana paused in the middle of reaching for another throw pillow from her bed—and threw it anyway.

It nailed him in the face. He stumbled back. “Goddess, stop that!”

“I’ll murder you!” she threatened. “You and your mother! You were her pawn this whole time—”

“Her pawn,” he deadpanned, catching the third pillow out of the air. “Why does everyone think I like my mother?”

“Because you’re like your mother.”

“I don’t like anyone,” he snapped in reply, and paused, finally getting a good look at her. Her hair—the braid—was gone, her head shaved clean. It made her face look sharper, her golden-brown eyes brighter. Where she’d been soft edges before, she was broken glass now. Of course she didn’t wear any of the beautiful nightgowns in her wardrobe, but a simple pearl-colored tunic belted at the waist, and dark trousers.

He held up the bag of food. “I deliver nutrients. So you don’t starve.”

One look and she turned her nose up at it. “I’m not hungry.”

Of course you are—you haven’t eaten since yesterday, he thought, annoyed. “Look, I’m not here to pick a fight, okay? We need to talk—”

“I have nothing to say to you.”