Traitor Born (Secondborn #2)(74)

“I need . . .” I can’t breathe.

Reykin stands in the doorway. The light in the room responds to his presence. Lamps turn on. He must have messed with it to irritate me. The room responds to him but not me. Without Reykin—if I’m alone—I’ll be in the dark.

My hands become fists as I attempt to catch my breath. Reykin approaches me with his hand out warily, as if I might startle and run. “I . . . need . . .” I try to force myself to breathe slower, but I can’t.

He takes the chets from my fumbling fingers. Tearing off a piece of one, he holds it out to me, but when I reach for it, he pulls it back. “Why should I give you this?” he asks. “You left me to panic for hours with no relief.”

A flare of anger spikes. Dizziness turns to tunnel vision. Full-blown, merciless fear catapults my heart into a frenzy. I’m dying. My nails bite into my palms.

Reykin swears softly. His fingers press the small piece of a chet to my lips. I take it into my mouth, and it melts on my tongue. My heart feels like someone is punching it.

He touches my sleeve, smoothing his hand over my arm. I cringe at the ache it brings. I must be one enormous bruise from head to toe. I’ve compartmentalized my physical pain, and now an awareness of it roars to the forefront of my mind. The chet steadily dulls it, but I’m beyond sore in the places where I was shot.

Reykin pummels me with a dark and brooding stare. I don’t want to see his pity. He must think I’m weak and stupid. Why it matters to me what he thinks, I don’t know. He’s not my friend. He’s barely my ally. His arm goes around my middle, tugging me to him. My back rests against his formidable chest. My head is heavy. He sweeps my damp hair away from my neck, baring my nape.

“Shh,” he whispers softly, soothing rather than scolding. The scent of whatever he was drinking mixes with his normal scent. It’s sweet, and I turn toward his lips. His cheek skims the sensitive part of my throat. His hand brushes back my hair again. He pulls me to the sofa and tugs me down next to him, holding me to his chest. He covers me with the charcoal-colored cashmere blanket. My cheek rests against his neck. When normal breathing returns, I don’t move. Exhausted, I lie limply against Reykin’s side.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, grasping the bridge of his nose with his fingers, as if his head hurts and he can’t find relief.

The palm of his other hand rests on my side, one of the only places I’m not bruised beneath my white shirt. The crest of his knuckles is scabbing over. “Who have you been fighting?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.

He lifts his hand, studying it. “Where do you think I went when I couldn’t find you?”

I wince. “I wasn’t with Hawthorne.”

“I know.”

“Did you hurt him?”

“He’s alive,” Reykin replies grudgingly.

“What did you do?”

“We had a conversation—mostly with our fists. We stopped trying to beat each other senseless when it became obvious that neither one of us knew where you were.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“That’s between us.”

“Did he say anything about joining our fight?” My voice is weak.

“No. We didn’t talk about that. My only concern was finding you.” When I don’t say anything, he sighs. “Whose side are you on, Roselle?”

“My side.”

“Were you with Salloway—the Rose Gardeners?” he asks. He sounds jealous.

“No.”

“Then where were you?”

“Nowhere.”

“You have to tell me. I’m going to lose my patience if you don’t.”

“Then lose it,” I reply. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“I think I’m the only person you’re afraid of.”

“Why would I be afraid of you?”

“Because you care about me,” he says scornfully.

“That would make me stupid, Reykin.”

“You care about what I think of you, and what I might do, and what might happen to me.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I? I don’t see you panicking around anyone else.”

“That’s because you’re not paying attention.”

“I couldn’t be more attentive.”

“How was I able to get away from you at the trial grounds, then, if you were so attentive?”

I sit up. His hand reaches out to stay me, but I’m beyond ready to end this conversation. “Do you know where I was,” he asks, “when you slipped away at the training grounds?”

I pause. “I take it you didn’t go to Salloway’s.”

“I went to see a different vendor.” He lifts his hand and gazes at his moniker. In a few seconds, Phoenix glides into the den with a very playful puppy trailing behind it. The tiny beast has a black nose, floppy ears, and white fur with black-and chestnut-colored spots. It leaps and bounds after the mechadome. Phoenix stops in front of us. Reykin stoops and scoops up the furry, wiggling puppy, whose tiny tail wags as he licks Reykin’s face and softly whines.

“Here.” Reykin places the adorable creature into my arms. The puppy immediately tries to shower my face with kisses. “He’s yours,” Reykin says gruffly. “I bought him for you before you did your disappearing act. I know secondborns aren’t allowed pets, but I’ll claim he’s mine.”