Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(49)

Reykin nudges Grisholm. The Firstborn Commander rises from his seat. Approaching The Virtue, he leans down and whispers in his father’s ear. The Virtue glances at me absently. He gives a dismissive wave of his hand and then turns back to the briefing. Grisholm nods to Reykin, who makes his way to me. “You’re cleared to leave and seek medical attention,” he says. “I’ll accompany you.” He holds my upper arm in a tight grip. I can’t pull away without making a scene.

I walk with him to the exit. Reykin scans his moniker, opening the security doors. Together we descend the stairs and pass by the mob of assembled guards. Neither of us speaks as we wait for the air elevator. A car arrives, and the glass doors open. A single passenger steps forward. My knees weaken.

“Hawthorne!” I say in a hushed tone.

Hawthorne’s eyes widen. He looks at Reykin’s hand on my arm and then to his face. With an instant snarl, Hawthorne swings his fist, connecting with Reykin’s jaw. A lesser man would hit the ground, but Reykin doesn’t fold. He strikes back, thumping Hawthorne in the throat with the heel of his hand. Wheezing and reeling, Hawthorne stumbles sideways. Reykin kicks him in the side. Hawthorne lurches forward and tackles Reykin. They crash hard onto the marble floor. Exo guards surround them and pull them apart.

“Enough!” I shout. I wait for them to stop struggling against the guards. “Let them go,” I order the security team. “They both have important business with The Virtue. Firstborn Trugrave was summoned here.” But I’m secondborn and have no authority. I’m completely ignored.

A female guard scans Hawthorne’s and Reykin’s monikers. She nods to the other guards. Both men are tentatively released, but burly Exos surround them. Drones circle, their weapons trained on the pair. The female guard turns to Reykin. “Do you want to press charges, Firstborn Winterstrom?”

Hawthorne jerks in my direction. His eyes burrow into me. He recognizes the name as the Winterstrom crest seared into my palm. “Reykin,” I say in my sweetest tone, “can you decide on that later? I missed breakfast, and I was hoping you’d join me. I know you like ham and eggs.”

Hawthorne’s aggressive posture slowly eases. He understood that I meant our friends, Hammon and Edgerton. Reykin straightens his black sleeve, pulling down on the cuff. “Anything for you, Roselle.” From his pocket, he takes out a small square of cloth and dabs the blood from the corner of his mouth. He turns to the female guard. “Let him go. Trugrave has a meeting with The Virtue, and I have an appointment for brunch.”

Reykin joins me by the air lift. We enter the elevator car together. I don’t turn to see Hawthorne’s expression as I leave. I can’t bear it. He knows now that I’ve been hiding how I got my scar, and what it means. If he doesn’t already suspect that I’m a Fate traitor, he will soon.





Chapter 11

The Promise of Dawn

The air elevator descends. Tears brighten my eyes. My body begins to tremble.

“He won’t talk,” I whisper. “You control the lives of the people he loves.”

“Shh,” Reykin replies.

Our eyes meet. Fear drives through my heart. “Don’t do anything. Please.”

He stares ahead at the city skyline as we descend into the main Palace, toward the medical facility on one of the subterranean floors.

Upon arrival, I find that the Atom physicians on duty have been expecting me. I’m ushered into a private room, where a male technician cuts my taped bandages away. He provides me with a white bodysuit with cutouts that expose my ribs. After donning the flimsy garment, I’m joined by a team of physicians. I expect Reykin to leave, but he doesn’t. He presides over the medical team, scrutinizing every device. My ribs are scanned. Knowing what’s ahead, I want to forgo it, but Reykin convinces me to submit to the bone fusion and skin regeneration procedure. I lie down on the table beneath the white lights and looming laser arm.

A secondborn female technician enters and takes a seat behind the laser’s control panel. The rest of the Atom-Fated medical team leaves. Reykin sits beside me. The laser emits a nauseating whine as it boots up.

“I hate this part,” I murmur.

Reykin lifts his chin toward the technician. “Give her something for pain.”

“She’s secondborn,” the woman replies. “Pain relief isn’t protocol in noncombat situations.”

“How much to circumvent protocol?” he asks.

The technician looks around. “A hundred merits.”

“Done.”

She slides from her seat and leaves the room.

“You’re going to make me soft,” I murmur.

“I’ll risk it this one time.”

In minutes, she’s back with a cylindrical tank. “I can’t give her the regulated drugs—they track them—but this will do the trick. It’ll make her happy and sleepy. It’s a little old-fashioned but effective.” She threads tubes over my ears and into my nostrils, instructing me to breathe deeply. I do. A heady rush of euphoria softens my pain. I smile broadly and giggle.

Reykin matches my smile with his own. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

“Nothing. My life is utter hell.” I sigh, and then laugh harder.

The technician winks at him before reclaiming her seat at the controls. The laser moves, emitting a precise beam. I don’t care. I feel like I’m floating. “I didn’t know this could be painless,” I say. “No one ever told me when I had this done before.”