by Kit Rocha
All of it would be more rational than gathering her spent body carefully in his arms, utterly content as she panted against his neck and shivered with delicate aftershocks.
He couldn’t blame any of this on survival. He’d simply...enjoyed it.
Far too much.
Kora huffed out a breath, followed by another, her shoulders shaking. He tensed, gripped with the certainty that she agreed—that her silent sobs indicated it had been too much.
Then he realized she was laughing.
Relief was immediate—but so was something else. A foreign sensation he disliked immediately, one that made him feel exposed. “Is something funny?”
“We are.” She lifted her head and brushed her tangled hair back from her flushed face. “We’re idiots. We could have been doing this already. We could live like this, naked in your bed.”
The foreign sensation jerked in the other direction so fast, he finally understood what it was—a pricked ego. Smug pride replaced it, and he reached up to help her smooth her hair from her damp forehead. “That wouldn’t be practical.”
“Oh, I disagree. I think it’s my best idea ever.”
Her blonde curls tangled around his fingers, and he took his time coaxing them gently apart. “You’re also under the influence of a great deal of oxytocin.”
“Pillow talk—it’s a thing. You can look it up later.” She traced his lower lip with one fingertip. “For now, you could just say that no one else has ever made you feel like that. That’s a solid line. It works.”
“I don’t need a line.” He smoothed the detangled strands of hair back over her shoulder and followed the line of her collarbone to where her pulse beat in her throat—still elevated. Was it lingering exertion or nerves? “No one else has ever made me feel.”
The quick thump of her pulse skipped. She stared down at him, her eyes welling until they glittered with tears. Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “I’m sorry. And I’m glad.”
He hated the tears. They felt like recrimination, stirring a restless need to vanquish whatever made her sad. Instead, he tugged her closer and tucked her head beneath his chin. His fingertips found the roses tattooed on her spine, and he traced the edges of each one in turn, hoping it would feel like absent, soothing comfort.
He wasn’t built to make her happy. The unalterable truths of his existence would prick at her heart, even as she stripped those truths away, one by one. And he would end up as fixated and obsessed with her as he had been six months ago.
And then he’d probably hurt her in new ways.
Grace
Grace’s brother was dead.
In all fairness, it shouldn’t have come as a shock, or even new information. The families of Riders considered them gone the moment they signed up. They had to, because they were meant to mourn them then, to get this wrenching pain out of the way long before the promise of death was ever fulfilled.
It was supposed to be a mercy, a way to keep them from the agony of waiting out the inevitable. But no matter how hard she tried, Grace had never been able to make it work in her head, because she always knew Jaden was out there, breathing and laughing and full of life.
And now he wasn’t.
She clutched her blanket more tightly around her shoulders—it wasn’t cold outside, but she was shivering. The knot of burning ice in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t let her stop.
Grace wandered to the open back door, but the idea of walking inside the house made her throat close with near-panic. It was filled not only with memories of her brother, but with the traditional sympathy gifts that followed a death in the family. Because of Jaden’s status as one of Gideon’s Riders, they were especially extravagant—not just food and other basics, but gold milagros, double shoulders of soft leather, and bolts of handwoven cloth.
She couldn’t look at them right now.
She turned her eyes toward the sky instead. The stars here looked the same as they did back home in Sector Seven, clear and bright against the velvet darkness. It only felt like she was worlds away from that place, that time.
After their mother died, Jaden worked all the time to support them—laboring by day in the fields that needed extra hands, and by night in the pub tents where the workers drank away their meager pay. He kept Grace away from it all, never letting her take on more than a little extra washing and mending.
He promised to take care of her, and he kept that promise. Here she was, safe and secure in Sector One, and her biggest problem was that she couldn’t stand being in her warm, well-stocked house.
“Grace?”
She recognized the voice. She spun around, and there he was—Zeke James, carrying a bottle of liquor in one hand, dressed in jeans and a pre-Flare T-shirt that was older than everything. He wore a serious expression of concern that didn’t suit him at all. His was a face made for smiles, not grief.
Too fucking bad, because grief was what they had tonight.
“Sorry.” He gestured over his shoulder, toward the front door. “When you didn’t answer, I got worried. I can leave, if you want.”
“No, it’s fine. I was just…” No possible explanation would make sense, so she moved on. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.” He held out the bottle, but he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes. “It isn’t much, just some bourbon from Sector Four. I wasn’t sure…” This time his gesture took in the gifts covering her table and spilling onto the floor. “I figured anything I could come up with someone already would have given you.”
“Bless you for not bringing food.” She walked into the kitchen and shut the back door behind her, blotting out the sky and the stars and the memories. “I ran out of room in the fridge by lunch. I had to start giving it to my neighbors. There’s one older lady who doesn’t know—about Jaden, I mean—and I couldn’t tell her. I made up some bullshit story about perfecting a new recipe, and now she thinks I can cook.” Oh God, she was babbling. Shut up, Grace.
Sympathy tightened Zeke’s eyes, but all he said was, “It’s hard. I’ve been here over ten years, and the way they grieve...or don’t grieve…” He shrugged. “It’s hard, if you didn’t grow up here.”
“Yes.” It helped that he understood, more than she expected it to. She draped the blanket across the back of a kitchen chair and reached for the bottle. “Shall we?”
“Sure.” He handed her the bottle and watched as she retrieved two glasses. “Listen, I know they do a lot of things kind of weird, but there are some things Gideon gets really right. Like taking care of his people. And you’re one of his people, you know. You have been since Jaden joined up.”
She cracked the seal on the bottle and shook her head. The last thing she wanted to think about was being someone else’s responsibility now that her brother was gone, an eternal burden for Gideon to inherit. “I’ll be okay, Zeke. I’ll be just fine.”
“I know.” He said it almost fervently, but when she glanced at him, his expression was still serious, almost shuttered. “But hear me out. Please.”
Grace poured the bourbon, too much in each glass, and passed him one.
She knew whatever it was mattered to him when he fortified himself with half the liquor before speaking again. “There’s a seamstress over on the edge of the East Temple district. I think she’s Gabe’s second or third cousin, or his great aunt or something. She’s getting older and wants to retire, so I was thinking...I could buy her out for you.”
Her stomach lurched. Gideon was one thing—he was responsible for everyone in the sector, no matter their situation or status—but this was different. If Zeke bought a shop for her, it would connect them in a very real, tangible way. Even if he never expected her to pay him back, even if he swore she owed him nothing, the link would always be there.
She considered it. She hated herself for it, sure, but she considered it. Not for the relative comfort he was offering, but for that connection.
He was still talking. “You can take over the shop, and she’ll stick around
to help you get going. And you could learn from her—”
“No.”
Zeke’s teeth snapped together. “At least think about it. It wouldn’t even cost me that much—she’ll probably cut a deal for one of Gabe’s friends. And then you wouldn’t have to worry.”
Oh, his guilt must have been crippling. Unbearable. “I know you were there with him, Zeke.”
His handsome, friendly face just...shut down. “This isn’t about that.”
“Don’t.” She reached across the small wooden island that separated them and gripped his forearm, tight enough for her fingers to dig into the tense muscle. “You were his family, too, all of you. Maybe more important than me because he chose you. He would have been glad that you made it.”
Zeke drained his glass and grabbed the bottle. In silence, he poured another double and tossed that one back, too. He didn’t look drunk, but Grace was starting to wonder. “He would want you to be taken care of. That’s all he ever wanted.”
“You don’t owe him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He slammed his hand down so hard the bottle rocked. “Fuck it, Grace. It’s not about owing. It’s about—” His fingers curled into a fist, and he exhaled roughly. “Never mind.”
He’s gone. Even thinking the words made her chest ache. Saying it would make it real, permanently, inescapably real. But of course it was. Jaden was dead. If souls existed, then his was gone. Even his body had already been destroyed, burned on the traditional pyres that were customary in One.
Her brother was dead. According to Sector One’s other customs, so was Zeke. Unfathomable, with him standing in front of her, blazing with so much life and anger and pain.
“Jaden’s gone, Ezekiel.” Her voice was surprisingly steady, and she forged ahead. “It hurts like hell, but there’s nothing either of us can do about it. It just is. We can’t fix it. We just have to get through it.”
“I know.” Zeke ran his fingers through his hair, and the usually spiky blond strands seemed as deflated as he did. His shoulders slumped, and he reached for the bottle again. But instead of pouring another drink, he found the cap and carefully screwed it on. “If you need anything, ask, okay? For him, if you won’t do it for yourself.”
She wouldn’t need anything, not from Gideon or the other Riders, and especially not from Zeke. She couldn’t afford to. “He loved it here. When we left Seven, I wasn’t sure where we’d end up, but the minute Jaden set foot in the temple, he was home.”
After a moment of hesitation, he reached out, and his fingertips brushed the back of her hand. “Even if you don’t need anything, you’re not alone, okay? Jaden had a dozen brothers, so you have them, too.”
Her stomach twisted again. The words cut, but at least Zeke wouldn’t notice. He never did. Not her nervousness or her starry eyes or the way she blushed furiously whenever she got within ten feet of him.
Knowing that he had no idea she was madly in love with him was the only way she had any pride left, and even that was slipping away. Part of her wanted to cling to his words, to ask him to stay. They could finish off the bottle and talk until the sun peeked over the eastern horizon to stream through the windows.
But if he stayed, it would be out of pity, because he felt sorry for the lonely girl who’d just lost the last of her family. And that was the only thing worse than knowing he didn’t think about her at all.
“Goodbye, Zeke.” She forced out the words before she changed her mind. “And thank you for the bourbon.”
He took the hint and started for the door. “Take care, Grace.”
“You, too.” She didn’t watch him leave. Instead, she tucked the bottle of liquor away on the table along with the expensive cloth and milagros and picked up her blanket. She wrapped herself up in it like armor, and began to plan her next move.
Sector One was always Jaden’s dream, not hers. Maybe the best thing to do was to go, to find some place she could feel just as certain about. Wasn’t that better than living someone else’s life, letting the past simply move her along because she was too frightened to make any real changes?
Three months. She’d give herself three months to deal with losing Jaden, and then she’d find out where she belonged.
Chapter Thirteen
Ashwin faced down Gideon’s office door with apprehension like sand on his tongue.
There should be satisfaction in this moment. Unless he’d drastically misread the current situation, Gideon Rios had summoned him to formally offer membership in the Riders. It should feel like victory. Taste like it—sweet and light.
Like Kora.
Her taste had vanished too quickly. He wanted it constantly now. He’d thought of a hundred places he wanted to taste her. Bent over the narrow desk in his room. Backed up against the wall. Spread out on the brick around the fire pit, her blonde hair glowing in the sunlight. Pressed to one of the endless trees in the orchard, gripping the bark with her hands to stay upright as he fucked his tongue into her until she made those helpless, needy little sounds that scraped him raw.
In the pool, under the moonlight—he could hold his breath long enough to make her come.
In his bed.
In her bed.
In every damn bed this palace had.
That obsessive, helpless longing was the reason for the ash on his tongue. For the low-level hum of trepidation. He was playing a game with Gideon. And Ashwin wasn’t sure which of them was winning anymore.
He wasn’t sure which one of them he wanted to win.
Ashwin rapped his knuckles on the polished walnut door and was answered almost immediately by Gideon’s muffled voice. “Come in!”
The interior of Gideon’s office was as complicated as the man who sat behind the wide, polished desk. Like most of his palatial home, it relied heavily on natural light from huge windows lining two walls. Three massive wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the tall ceiling in a wide triangle, their candlelight diffused by colorful globes of stained glass.
A Base analyst could have written pages about the chandeliers alone, and the layers of messages it conveyed. The rejection of electric lighting betrayed a fear of reliance on technology—common in the men and women who had survived the Flares, but considered increasingly eccentric with each generation. The use of candles and the intricate glass screamed luxury—even for people who didn’t trust the power grid, solar batteries cost far less in the long run than precious, hard-to-replace candles.
They were probably tallow wax. One of the cadet branches of the Reyes family had a very profitable business rendering tallow from the ranch. No doubt a percentage of the product came to Gideon Rios, tithed to him like everything else in the sector.
Gideon Rios was easily the richest man within a hundred miles. His wealth rivaled the corrupt former councilmen in Eden as well as most of the other sector leaders. And he sat behind his simple wooden desk in a simple cotton shirt, sipping water from a glazed earthenware cup, smiling so earnestly that Ashwin could almost believe there was nothing he wanted to do more than sit down and chat with the man who’d been sent to spy on him.
Maybe there wasn’t. After all, Gideon might be winning.
As if he sensed the thought, his smile widened. He gestured to one of the carved wooden chairs on the opposite side of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Ashwin crossed the room, but hadn’t yet sat when Gideon continued, “And decide which conversation you want to have, too. We can have the one where we tell each other barely concealed lies and analyze the subtext of every word, or we can have the one where we tell the truth and make a wager.”
In the space of the next two heartbeats, Ashwin considered killing Gideon Rios.
It was hardly the optimal outcome. Any advantage the Base could possibly gain by checking Gideon’s rise to power would be more than negated by the holy war of vengeance that would follow. Gideon might have declared his sister the new head of their grandfather’s religion, but pacifists or not, Sector One would still rise up to avenge
him.
And Kora would be heartbroken. Not only that the man she cared for as a brother was dead, not even that Ashwin had killed him. She’d be heartbroken to know that Ashwin was standing in front of him, pondering the practicalities of killing him without the slightest hesitation.
She might have sparked feelings in him, but thus far they hadn’t proved contagious.
Lowering himself into the chair, Ashwin faced his adversary and considered him for a moment. “I prefer the truth.”
“So do I.” Gideon sat back and laced his fingers behind his head, his pose one of deliberate ease, but his eyes were sharp. “I have a question, now that we’re being honest. Were the deserters part of your ruse to infiltrate the Riders, or just a convenient excuse?”
Judging from the look in Gideon’s eyes, the wrong answer could prove fatal. Luckily, the right answer was the truth. “A convenient excuse. Deserters have been a problem on the Base since the break with Eden. This was the largest group, but there have been numerous soldiers unaccounted for since the war.”
“Really?” A hint of curiosity replaced the coolness in the other man’s eyes. “Why so many?”
There wasn’t much danger in the information, so Ashwin offered it as a gesture of good faith. “Disillusionment. Finding out how Eden had squandered the resources that those on the Base had bled and sacrificed for caused significant unrest.”
“I can imagine,” Gideon murmured. “The sectors are familiar with bleeding and sacrificing for Eden’s greed.”
Considering that the sectors had expressed their disillusionment by rising up against the city, there wasn’t much Ashwin could say to that.
Gideon acknowledged it with a small smile, then changed the subject. “So. The Base is concerned about me, are they? I’d think that after O’Kane led our little revolution so efficiently, I’d be an afterthought.”