Beyond Surrender (Beyond #9)

by Kit Rocha

  "Texas was rough," he continued in an easy voice. "My mama held her family's ranch through grit and will, but there were plenty of people who looked at a woman in charge and saw weakness."

  "I hope your mother taught them painful lessons about stupid assumptions."

  "Over and over again. So when the people whose land bordered ours needed a little more space—and they decided to push out in our direction—they didn't come at us nice and clean and in the open." Dallas's jaw clenched. "Those motherfuckers poisoned our water supply. Half the ranch was sick before we figured it out. Seven people died."

  "Jesus." Ryder stopped and stared at him. The tactic was brutal but effective. Jim had considered that Eden, if pressed, might do the same. But the fact that the sectors surrounded the city afforded protection—in order to poison everyone outside the walls, the city would have to poison itself. "What happened?"

  "I gathered everyone who could stand steady enough to hold a weapon, and then I got them mad. Fuck, I was mad. I was, twenty, maybe. Maybe. I've always had a temper, but back then I didn't know how to keep it in check." Dallas slanted a look at him. "And I didn't know well enough to leave the folks who'd lost loved ones at home. They were looking for revenge, and they didn't much care if they survived it. They went down first, and almost took the rest of us with them."

  It felt a little too pointed to be coincidence. "Are you telling a story or trying to ask me a question?"

  "Who says it has to be one or the other?" Dallas shrugged and stared ahead again. "One of the men out for revenge was Nessa's father. She was just a baby, barely walking yet. The poison got her mother, and then I got her father killed because I couldn't recognize a man who wasn't in any shape for battle. I made her an orphan."

  The story was horrific, unthinkable, yet the sincere, self-directed blame in Dallas's voice still made Ryder want to laugh—not out of mirth, but disbelief. "Is there anything you won't take credit for?"

  "Not credit. Responsibility," Dallas countered. "And no. Right now, the fact that my decisions have consequences is something I'm holding on to real tight. Because it would be easy to let it go, and I don't think you'd want me running this war if I did."

  It was nothing less than a confession, and it deserved to be answered in kind. "You know, not everything in Jim's scary little book was his idea."

  Dallas snorted. "Shouldn't be surprised. You're smart, but you're a devious motherfucker, too. You took over Five from the inside without spilling a drop of blood. That might be a first for the sectors."

  Ryder shrugged. "I made it a point never to do anything I couldn't live with." Just in case he made it through this war, he couldn't want to walk a path of self-destructive vengeance.

  "Good." Dallas stopped abruptly and turned to face him. "Lex told me I'm not allowed to be an asshole about this, but I am not fucking around here. If you hurt Nessa, even a tiny bit, I'll make Jim's scary book look like a fucking princess tea party. Do we have an understanding?"

  "O'Kane—"

  "If I'd been a little smarter, a little better, she'd still have a father. She's family, in every fucking way that counts. I will ruin anyone who makes her cry."

  Maybe Ryder had a bit of a death wish, after all, because he couldn't help imagining Nessa's reaction to Dallas's proclamation, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. "I hear you. Yes, we have an understanding."

  "We'd better," he rumbled, glaring at him for another moment before he resumed walking. "It'd be really fucking inconvenient if I had to kill you."

  "Uh-huh." More inconvenient for Ryder than anyone, because he had no doubt that Dallas would do it. "For what it's worth, she could have done worse than you for family. A lot worse."

  Dallas laughed roughly. "Don't bother with flattery. My ego's already as big as it can get."

  "Flattery's for people who don't have more important shit to say."

  "I suppose it is." Dallas slapped Ryder's shoulder—maybe a bit harder than necessary, but still friendly. "Let's win this war, and we'll both have enough ego to last a few lifetimes."

  Ryder finally let loose with the chuckle he'd been holding in. "Whatever, O'Kane. Something tells me that in the ego department? I'll never catch up with you."

  Chapter Eleven

  The upstairs warehouse area that had become Tatiana's workspace wasn't as pretty as her shop had been, but it smelled the same. No matter how tightly she packed away the oils lining the huge steel shelves, the fragrances always escaped in teasing hints. Nessa could lose hours sampling each one in turn—and probably would have, if she'd had hours to spare.

  No one did, not anymore. Even girl-bonding time had been taken over by the practicalities of war. Instead of soaps or lotions, one side of Tatiana's massive worktable was lined with the latest batch of the unaged grain liquor. Bottle after bottle of clear, stringent liquid, each waiting for some mysterious combination of the herbs Rachel and Jeni were sorting at the other end of the table.

  Nessa didn't like watching. They were basically murdering her booze.

  Jeni frowned down at a pile of brittle, dried somethings in front of her. "Do we have any more calendula?"

  Rachel looked up from counting out sticky-looking brown plant buds. "Just the fresh ones in Jyoti's greenhouse. We're saving those for oil, though—topical use."

  "Zan reached out to a contact down south, but we haven't heard back yet." Tatiana carried another basket to the table and straddled the bench. "We have plenty of skullcap, though. Nessa, do you want to help slice the ginger?"

  "Sure." She abandoned the shelf of fruity-smelling oils and joined the other women at the table, stopping only to stroke little Hana's cheek. Amira's daughter was strapped into a high chair just far enough away from the table where she couldn't grab things, banging two wooden blocks together.

  At Nessa's attention, she lifted one chubby hand, offering her a block with a drooling smile.

  "You keep it," she murmured, ruffling the girl's dark hair. "I gotta play with the grown-up toys today. We'll build you a castle tomorrow."

  The baby babbled as Amira smiled indulgently. "Don't let Hawk hear you say that. He'll hit the workshop and actually build her a tiny castle."

  Nessa laughed and settled on the bench across the table from Jeni. "That reminds me. I owe you and Hawk a wedding present. Maybe something from the vault, if you think he'd like it."

  Jeni waved that away and began to break up dried sprigs of herbs into a mortar. "It'll keep. Everyone's so busy right now."

  Amira passed her the pestle, along with an encouraging smile. "This shit won't last forever."

  No, it wouldn't. It couldn't. They'd fight and they'd win or they'd fight and they'd die, but one way or another, there was a time in the near future where none of them would have to worry about Eden anymore.

  And then Ryder would leave.

  Fighting back a frown, Nessa accepted the ginger and a knife from Tatiana. Thinking about Ryder was dangerous. Thinking about him would lead to babbling about him, and her mood was too precarious for teasing. "How are you feeling, Rachel? Cruz hasn't raided the ginger stash in a while."

  "Better, thanks. Much better. I think the worst of the morning sickness might be over." She knocked on the tabletop.

  That should soothe Cruz, who'd been fighting two different wars lately—the easy one against Eden, and the impossible one against Rachel's discomfort and the fundamental nature of pregnancy. Cruz took taking care of Rachel and Ace so seriously that Nessa had always rolled her eyes and wondered why they put up with it.

  Maybe it wasn't as much of a mystery now. Having someone take care of you could be kinda nice.

  "Poor Cruz." Jeni laughed as she ground the herbs into fragrant green bits. "He's so excited, he just doesn't know what to do with himself."

  So was Ace. Nessa had known Ace for half her life, and if she'd had to guess about his reaction to knocking someone up, she would have put her money on sheer panic. But Ace was as smug as if he'd invented th
e concept of making babies himself.

  Even more unthinkably, he had a workroom up here above the warehouse now, too—a place to stash all his painting supplies and half-finished canvases. His old studio had become a nursery, complete with cheerful dragons chasing each other through fluffy clouds all around the walls and up onto the ceiling.

  It was so violently adorable, Nessa wanted to puke on him.

  "Hey." Tatiana nudged her arm. "You okay?"

  Nessa blinked, and realized she'd been glaring at the ginger, her knife frozen above it. Flushing, she quickly resumed slicing. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired. I never thought I'd be glad to shut down production, but I can't run that place myself."

  Rachel glanced over at her, then squinted sharply.

  Oh, shit. She'd lied. In front of Rachel, who was one of the only people who could actually tell. Her cheeks grew hotter, and she stared down at the ginger, not seeing it.

  Don't think about Ryder. Don't think about Ryder. Don't think about—

  "I got naked with Ryder."

  Everyone around the table froze.

  "Not all the way naked. Just like half-naked. Three-quarters naked at most." Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Everyone was staring at her, and they weren't talking, and the silence pressed in on her until more words spilled out. "I don't want it to be a big thing, because then all the guys will make it a thing. But if I'm not talking about it, then it's a big thing because I talk about everything…"

  Rachel squealed and drummed her hands on the table in a quick, staccato beat. "Oh, my God. Shut up and tell us about half-naked. Tell us everything."

  Nessa's breath escaped her in a whoosh. So did all the tension she hadn't even realized had settled itself at the base of her neck. She felt fifteen pounds lighter, not to mention a little giddy. So many times she'd been in Rachel's shoes, demanding all the details and hoarding them as a shield against disappointment.

  Finally, she was the one with a story. "It was… It was just hot. He smolders all over the place. He's so serious and focused and he kept going so slow I wanted to kill him…" She trailed off, trying and failing to find the words. No wonder they'd never been able to describe that moment when patience—or even impatience—was rewarded a million times over.

  The words didn't exist.

  "Look at her face." Jeni covered her cheeks and laughed. "I think I might blush."

  "Shut up," Nessa grumbled, but she could feel her lips forming that goofy, ridiculous smile she'd seen so many times on other faces. "You guys, I'm serious. As soon as Ace and Jas and Dallas find out, they're going to make it weird. They always make it weird."

  "Or maybe you've just found the upside to our little revolution," Amira suggested. "They're too busy right now to make it weird."

  "Who's gonna make what weird?" Ace asked from behind her.

  Rachel disguised her laugh with a cough and dropped a bundle of herbs to the table. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's rude to sneak up on people?"

  "That's why I do it," he replied cheerfully, and Nessa wondered if she could turn her cheeks any color other than bright red in the next five seconds.

  No, probably not.

  Ace strolled around the table to drop a kiss on Rachel's head, but kept going until he reached Hana's high chair. The baby grabbed for him with an excited burble of laughter, and Ace swept her up into his arms. "Well, Hana? What were they talking about?"

  Hana babbled something in babytalk and grasped a fistful of Ace's hair. He grinned like it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen, and Nessa moved puke on Ace up three spots on her mental itinerary.

  Amira propped one hand on her hip. "Hana won't rat us out. Girl code."

  "Girl code, huh?" Ace settled Hana against his side, seemingly oblivious to the tiny fist tangled in his hair, and made a goofy face at her. "I think you'd tell your favorite uncle, wouldn't you, sweet pea?"

  Oh, God. Five spots. Ten spots. Puking on Ace was definitely near the top of her to-do list.

  Until she looked at Rachel.

  Her friend stared at Ace with a dreamy, almost unfocused expression, one that radiated happiness and tenderness and a strangely satisfied hunger. It was such pure, unfiltered joy that it spilled over everyone in the room, provoking fond smiles and settling in Nessa's gut as a dangerous mix of yearning and envy.

  All the smushy relationship baby shit might be revoltingly adorable from the outside, but the view from the inside just looked...adorable. And kind of glorious.

  Cruz

  Cruz still remembered the first time he spoke to Ashwin Malhotra.

  He'd been exactly ten years old. Exactly, because it was his birthday—an occasion marked on the Base with physical and mental fitness evaluations instead of presents and celebration. He passed with top marks in every category and received a new uniform—his official entrance into the ranks of the elite soldiers.

  Then he received his first official beating as a new recruit.

  There were six of them, all in their mid-teens, all well into puberty with height and reach that Cruz couldn't match. He held his own as best he could with the training he'd been given, but pain had been as inevitable as the lack of intervention. The Base encouraged elite soldiers to define their own hierarchy, and they weren't interested in soldiers who couldn't survive within it.

  Those boys might have killed him if Ashwin hadn't arrived.

  "Go."

  It was the only word he said, the only one required. The boys scattered, because no one fucked around with the Makhai soldiers—even one who was still a teenager. Ashwin had probably been no more than seventeen or eighteen years old, but he seemed as powerful as any adult as he helped Cruz off the floor. His face remained impassive as he pulled Cruz's broken finger back into alignment and checked him for more serious injuries.

  Too wary to argue, Cruz had obeyed when Ashwin prodded him in the direction of the clinic. But he gathered enough courage to ask one question. "Why'd you stop them?"

  They walked in silence for so long, Cruz had been sure Ashwin intended to ignore him. But then the answer had come, impassive and cold. "You represent a massive investment of Base resources. You're small now, but within three to four years, your height will put you in the top percentile. It's inefficient to risk compromising your viability."

  That chilly, impersonal logic had defined his relationship with Ashwin over the years. There were no more severe beatings—not until his teens. By then, Cruz had grown a foot, then two. He towered over the other recruits and worked hard to build muscle to match his height. Ashwin never intervened again, because he didn't need to—Cruz might have been at risk of pain and discomfort, but not incapacitation, and Ashwin only cared about outcomes. The end game.

  Efficiency.

  The man standing across from Cruz in a dead-end alley behind the market square looked like Ashwin Malhotra. He had the familiar light-brown skin and closely shorn black hair. He wore fatigues and weapons with an absent ease that spoke of a lifetime association with them.

  But the dark-brown eyes that were usually so cold, so empty, seethed with a wild panic his impassive expression couldn't hide. He'd appeared without warning, though Cruz had detected no indication he was being followed. And even as his old friend stood there with his hands resting easily by his sides, Cruz couldn't stop measuring the distance from Ashwin's left hand to the gun strapped to his thigh.

  Not that he needed it. If Ashwin wanted to kill him, he could do it with his bare hands.

  "Lorenzo Cruz."

  His voice was rough, unsettled. Fraying around the edges. Cruz wanted to be wrong about why. "Ashwin. We've been wondering where you were. You made quite a statement over in Sector Two."

  Ashwin ignored the words, as if the slaughter in Sector Two was irrelevant. "I need to know where she is."

  She. Weeks ago, Ashwin had come to him to cash in on a long-owed favor. The request had been deceptively simple—find Dr. Kora Bellamy among the people giving aid after the bombings in Sector Two, and hide her someplace sa
fe.

  The true favor had been to keep her hidden, even when Ashwin himself came asking. And after the unbridled massacre in Two, Cruz couldn't help but wonder if this favor was going to get him killed.

  "She's safe," he said carefully. It would take at least a second to get his hand on his gun. Hand-to-hand might be safer—Ashwin was genetically enhanced, but Cruz could use his lack of control against him. If it came to that.

  With Rachel pregnant, he couldn't let it come to that.

  The man absorbed the words without immediate response. His lips pressed together in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, but when he spoke, it was close enough to coolly rational that it might have fooled anyone who hadn't known him before. "I know what I said, but I'm revoking the request. I've arranged for a secure location. Tell me where she is, and consider your debt repaid."

  Cruz didn't doubt the man's ability to prepare a safe house. Whatever he'd set up, no one in the city or the sectors or the entire world could find Kora and hurt her.

  Which didn't make it safe. Not if Ashwin was unraveling in there with her.

  "You have to trust me," he began, his eyes trained on Ashwin, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. "When you're feeling more—"

  Even watching for it, Cruz didn't see the explosion coming.

  One second, they were on opposite sides of the alley. The next, Ashwin was slamming Cruz into the brick wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Ashwin's hand closed around his throat, pushing him up onto his toes, and his rational mask shattered. "Where is she?"

  Cruz's fingers brushed the butt of his pistol, but Ashwin was too crazed to sense the slow movement as he eased it from the holster. The man's eyes blazed and his fingers tightened, leaving behind the precise application of force. Even if Cruz had wanted to answer Ashwin's snarled question, it was impossible.

  He demanded it again anyway. "Tell me where she is."

  Cruz slapped his free hand against Ashwin's and mimed speaking. Ashwin's grip loosened in response, but he didn't let go, those steely fingers crushing Cruz's last hope of getting out of this without violence.