Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(53)

“You will die if you keep this up, Roselle.”

“It’s only treason if I lose.” I take a step in his direction, and when he doesn’t shoot, I take another, and another, until I’m close enough to reach for the fusionmag. “I’m still the woman you shared a million kisses with.” I touch the cool metal of the barrel. “It’s still me.”

Hawthorne groans, relinquishing his weapon. “If you’re going to kill me, do it fast.”

In seconds, I disassemble the fusionmag and set the pieces on the side table. I stare down into his eyes. His hand lifts to the back of my neck. He pulls me nearer until my lips meet his in a ferocious, all-consuming kiss.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“Because it’s right—like you and I are right. We can save them, Hawthorne—this isn’t unfaithfulness to Sword secondborns. It’s loyalty. We can change their lives for the better. Don’t decide now. Just think about it. I’m only asking you to continue to protect Hammon, Edgerton, and me with your silence.”

Hawthorne pulls me down to him. I straddle his hips. His hand cups my jaw. His thumb traces my cheek. His sorrow burns away in the heat of his desire. The yearning that always accompanies his touch destroys my resolve. As his thumb slides over my bottom lip, I shiver, craving more. I wish he could hold me until I die.

My hands slip under his shirt, feeling his muscles beneath my fingertips. I push away the black fabric. He grasps the hem, lifting it off over his head and dropping it on the floor. The sight of him makes me long to be his again. I wish he were still secondborn. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. He was mine then. I want him back.

His hands thread through my hair, pulling it from its knot. The strands unfurl around my shoulders and down my back. His expression turns fiercer, and he tugs off my eyewear. With his hands under my thighs he picks me up. I wrap legs around his waist and my wrists around his neck, drawing his mouth to mine. We kiss as he carries me to his bed and sets me down. My back touches the blankets. His knee digs into the mattress beside my hip. Long fingers splay in my hair. Firm lips hover above me.

Inching up my black shirt, Hawthorne pulls it over my head and tosses it haphazardly on the floor. “How are your ribs?” he asks. His eyes move with his fingers, stroking a path down my skin, gently touching the ones that were broken. It’s both sensual and ticklish. Gasping softly, I suck in my bottom lip to keep from giggling. A rush of desire overtakes me. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” I breathe the word, but I don’t know if it’s true. I ache for him to keep touching me—to never stop. “I’m okay now. I had them repaired.”

His lips travel with whisper-softness over my ribs, his warm breath against my cool skin. I inhale sharply. His finger hooks in the fabric of my black bra—the valley between the cups where the clasp lies. “If I’m not mistaken, this isn’t military issue,” he murmurs. His fingertips rim the edges of the fabric.

Heat pours through me. My skin flushes. “They gave me girl clothes.”

“Oh, I noticed.” His finger deftly unclasps my bra.

His shadow of a beard skims against my breast. His mouth latches on to my hardened nipple. I arch up against his lips, my eyes closing, my mouth opening. His tongue flicks, and my ache intensifies to a burning need. I grip his arm, digging into his muscle. “Hawthorne,” I whisper harshly.

“I missed your voice.” He growls low against me, kissing the valley between my breasts. “The raspy way you say my name when you want me. It rushes under my skin.”

“I always want you.”

“You’re all that matters to me,” Hawthorne confesses. That, too, is an act of treason. He rests his forehead against my belly and sighs. “This isn’t how I saw this night ending.”

“Hawthorne, this is how I want every night with you to end.”

He closes his eyes. “I love you, Roselle.”

“Maybe it’s okay . . . maybe just this one time . . .”

Hawthorne opens his eyes and shakes his head. “We can’t, Roselle. They’d murder you. I won’t risk it. We shouldn’t even be doing this—especially here. Just kissing could get you flayed. I’m so weak around you.” He gets off the bed, finds my shirt, and hands it to me. I reclasp my bra and slip my shirt on.

He sits beside me and then lies back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I rest my cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. He wraps his arms around me. I know I need to go. Dawn is coming. I try to sit up, but his arms tighten.

“Hawthorne,” I whisper.

He kisses my hair. “I know,” he replies, but his arms don’t loosen.

“How long are you staying at the Halo Palace?”

“I have to leave first thing in the morning.”

“Why?” I apply a bit more pressure, and he relents, easing his grip on me. I rise on my elbow so I can see his face. He reaches for my hair, tucking strands of it back behind my ear.

“They already know what happened at the social club,” he says. “It was captured by the surveillance drones. They just wanted to know why I was there.”

“Do they know about us?”

“Not in the winter corridor—just in the gallery and ballroom. Salloway told them that the snowy hallway isn’t monitored because it’s private, and the members like it that way. But you only had to watch us together in the gallery to see my devotion to you.”