Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(42)

“Missed you,” I whisper.

“I don’t sleep well without you. I keep reaching for you, but you’re never there.”

“I’m here now.”

“We need a plan.”

“I know.” I try to focus on the problem, to come up with a plan that allows me to stay with Hawthorne, but his snuggling is like a lullaby, and I can’t even find a way to stay awake.



Pressure on my side brings me up from a deep sleep. I want to ignore it, but the hand squeezes tighter. Pain brings my eyebrows together. I whimper. It’s hard to breath without my whole side aching. I open my eyes. It’s near dawn. The horizon is a bruising of light, blocked by a dark silhouette. I lift my head from the pillow, my vision blurs from exhaustion. Blinking a few times, my eyes focus.

Reykin is seated in one of the wingback chairs, blotting out the view of the lake. A tight black shirt and military-style pants highlight his formidable figure. I almost don’t see the black fusionmag resting on his lap. The golden light of his shooting-star moniker hides beneath a black leather glove. I haven’t seen him seethe with anger like this since I first encountered him on the battlefield. “Get your clothes,” he says.

Hawthorne, still spooning me, whispers in my ear, “Don’t move.” His hand on my hip is no longer heavy, but tense, poised.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Reykin. Fear wends its way through me. He clutches the weapon in his lap threateningly.

“I came to rescue you,” he says with the menacing ring of hard-fought patience.

“Rescue me?” My groggy mind stutters. It takes me a second to remember last night.

“Get. Your. Clothes.” Reykin doesn’t raise his voice, but it feels like he slapped me. I tense with a sick dread that he’ll hurt Hawthorne if I don’t obey him.

“Who are you?” Hawthorne snarls. “How did you get past my security?”

Reykin doesn’t answer him but continues to stare at me with barely controlled rage. I mutter, “It’s complicated, Hawthorne.” I raise myself up on my elbow and wince. My fingers go to my sore ribs, holding them, hoping to stave off the pain. It does little. I turn to Reykin. “Put your gun away.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t shoot him,” he replies. “Now get dressed. We’re leaving.”

“Hawthorne saved my life last night.”

“So you slept with him.” It’s not a question; it’s an accusation.

The rumble of Hawthorne’s deep voice contains its own barely restrained fury. “Who is this, Roselle?”

My eyes narrow at Reykin. I shift, moving my feet to the floor and sitting up with difficulty. My hair falls in my face. I bend at the waist, hoping to gain some relief, but it doesn’t help, so I straighten.

“Who are you?” Hawthorne roars at Reykin.

Instead of answering, Reykin asks him, “Did you tell her that you’re engaged?”

My gasp feels like a knife through the ribs, straight into my heart. Hawthorne’s jaw is rigid. I try to meet his eyes, but he won’t look at me. “I’m not engaged,” he denies.

“Oh no?” Reykin asks. “I just imagined that announcement this week in The Sword Social?”

I know the firstborn Star is telling the truth. He doesn’t lie to me.

“I didn’t agree to it.” Resentment is thick in Hawthorne’s tone. “My parents made that marriage contract without my consent. Fauna Kinwrig was my brother Flint’s fiancée. They think I have a moral obligation to fulfill that promise to her.”

Reykin’s blue eyes are unwavering. “That will be a difficult contract to break. The Kinwrigs are powerful. I’m sure they like the sound of Fauna Trugrave just a little too much, given what comes with the name.”

“Hard to break, but not impossible.”

“Do you know what would happen to Roselle, a secondborn, if she were found like this in your bed? They’d whip the skin off her back—and that’s just the beginning. And do you know what would happen to you?” He pauses. “Nothing. You’d get to live on and marry Firstborn Kinwrig.”

I get to my feet, unable to sit any longer. My ribs are aching, and my heart is breaking. I clutch my side and move toward the bathroom.

“Roselle!” Hawthorne calls.

“Don’t move,” Reykin orders him, raising the barrel of the fusionmag.

I enter the bathroom and close the door. My clothes are still on the limestone floor near the bath. Gathering them, I shrug the leather top over my bandaged ribs, pain stabbing in my side. Cold sweat breaks out on my brow. I refuse to call Reykin to help me. I don’t even know if he would. Instead, I reach behind me, holding my breath against the agony, and tie the laces myself. The pants are a little easier to manage. I don’t have my boots, but I’m not sure I could put them on anyway.

Glancing in the mirror, I’m not surprised to see deep-blue and -purple bruises on my shoulders and arms. Cuts from shattered glass and thorns still mar my skin, despite the round of skin regeneration therapy. In short, I’m a mess.

I rummage in a drawer near the sink, finding toothpaste. I rub some on the tip of my finger and clean my teeth. When I’m done, I use a smear of toothpaste to write the coordinates of my Halo Palace apartment on the mirror.