Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(16)

Leaving the kitchen, I trudge to the stairs and start to climb them. Behind me, Phoenix’s feet clang against the floor. I pause, turning around to find the small bot running into the bottom step, trying to follow me upstairs. It points to the sofa, clearly wanting me to sleep there. “No,” I reply. “I’m sleeping in my bed.”

More clanging sets my teeth on edge, but I ignore it. I take a quick shower and change into sleepwear that I can fight in if need be. The first-aid kit in my bathroom has liquid stitches and bandages. I use the salve to sterilize and glue my frayed skin together, and a bandage to cover the wound on my neck. Returning to my bedroom, I climb onto the enormous mattress. I grip the silver hilt of my Halo Palace–issued fusionblade and, with supreme effort, try to keep my eyes open.



A murderous nightmare leaves me breathless. I’m jerked awake by something brushing up against my arm. In my right hand, my fusionblade ignites, and I strike, but it’s met by an equally strong dual-blade, the X16 model I helped design. The energy of our blades growls where they meet, spitting and sizzling in protest. “It’s me,” Reykin hisses between clenched teeth. The golden glow of the blade makes him look like a statue of an ancient deity—maybe even Tyburn himself. “You’re having a bad dream.”

My eyes narrow, and I look around from my half-reclined position on my bed. My bedroom is the same as before, except the fat chair that’s usually by the window has been moved to the corner. It has a small blanket draped over the arm and a large indention in the cushion.

I withdraw my fusionblade and power it off. Reykin does the same. The soft light beside my bed illuminates when I touch its base. “What are you doing here?” I demand. Everything is hazy and my voice sounds groggy, even though I have adrenaline coursing through me. My nightmare was particularly horrific—my mother’s soldiers were destroying the city of Purity to get to me.

Reykin retreats to the chair, lifting it and moving it back where it was. His hair is sticking up on one side, and his dark, expensive trousers are wrinkled. The broad expanse of his back is completely bare. He turns, and I see a large handprint on the side of his cheek.

My eyes widen. “You slept here!”

“You have bad dreams,” Reykin grunts.

“So?” I ask defensively. It’s none of his business.

“So you sounded like you were being hurt.”

“I wasn’t.” I rub the sleep from my eyes and sit up straighter, shifting my legs over the side of the bed and setting my feet on the floor.

“How was I to know?” His lip curls in a snarl. “You refused to sleep on the sofa. I couldn’t see you. Phoenix can’t get up the stairs.” He stretches his long arms over his head to work out a kink in his shoulder. His body is even more toned than those of most of the Sword soldiers in my unit. He’s perfect, except for a long, faint scar from his shoulder to his abdomen.

“Are you insane? You can’t be found in my room.”

“I know.” He exhales deeply in frustration. “I’m going to have to stay until tonight when things become quieter. I’ll sneak out then.”

“I can defend myself.”

“Unless you sleep through the attack. You didn’t even hear me enter your room.”

“I’m in more danger with you here! If someone were to find you in my quarters, it’s not you they’ll punish, it’s me. You’re firstborn.” My tone implies all the malice I’m beginning to feel for all firstborns.

“Do what I tell you next time, and I won’t have to come looking for you!” Reykin snatches up his discarded shirt. I lift my chin, realizing I’ve been staring at his bare chest.

“Your shoulder healed well,” I mutter.

He has his arms through his sleeves, the material gathered at his elbows, ready to pull it over his head. Instead, he lowers his arms and glances at his thin scar. His irritation cools. “The med drone you called on the battlefield mended my bones and cauterized my skin. It sterilized the wound and inoculated me against infection. It hurt like being branded by a fusionblade when I woke up in the back of the cargo ship that transported me back to a Star base.”

“You didn’t have the scar removed.” He could easily have done it. He’s a wealthy, aristocratic Star—a landowner and a prominent member of the community that provides power and energy to the Fates. A Winterstrom.

He shrugs into his shirt. “No. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

He folds the small blanket, placing it on the arm of the chair. “It’s a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” He doesn’t answer. I sigh. “How did you get past the stingers outside? Did you use lead to cover your moniker?” If he has more, I want some. I haven’t yet fashioned a block for my moniker, and I need to be able to travel freely around without being tracked by The Virtue or anyone else.

“These aren’t like Sword stingers. These are Virtues stingers—equipped with an arsenal of elite caliber weapons. Your leader saves all the best technology for himself. You can’t just rely on a lead shield over your moniker. They have infrared.”

“So, how’d you do it?”

“I created an orb that allows me to cloak my temperature—used with the lead shield over my moniker, stingers can’t ping me or sense me.” He pulls a small device from his pocket and hands it to me. It’s a silver sphere the size of a walnut.