by Kit Rocha
"Shit, Ace." She sank to her knees beside him, panicked by the amount of blood soaking his shirt. She groped for her kit as she glanced up at one of the boys. "Go find Doc. Now."
The boy took off, and Nessa reloaded the injector with shaking hands. "You better not argue with me about this."
"Fuck, no," he groaned. "Dope me up. Hell, give me double. Do you have any idea how much this hurts?"
"No, you idiot. Because I don't get shot." She was gentler with him than she'd been with Finn, and the relief that slid over his face as the drugs took effect soothed her. She reached for the gauze next and pressed it to his wound. "What's happening in there?"
"We're kicking their asses." Ace's grin was already a little stoned, and when he tried to pat her cheek with his good hand, he got more of her hair than anything else. "Don't look so worried, darling. Ryder's with Cruz. Cruz won't let anything happen to him."
"I know," she soothed, guiding his hand back down to his chest. "Just rest, Ace. Rachel will be waiting for you back at the compound. We just gotta get you patched up first."
Dylan and Jyoti finally arrived, and Nessa relinquished her spot to him. Jyoti touched her arm as she rose, studying her with worried eyes. "If you need to take a few moments—"
Nessa swiped at her cheeks and told herself the burning in her eyes was exhaustion, not tears. "I'm fine. I just need—"
"Out of the way!" The pretty blonde doctor who'd arrived with Gideon's people hurried in, her soft voice hard as steel. "Clear some space, and someone get me a surgical tray. Now."
Nessa started to move, but her entire body seized in denial as two of the Riders rushed behind her, carrying a stretcher between them. Nessa didn't have a good angle to see who was on it, but it didn't matter.
Lex was with them, wild-eyed and distraught. And covered—covered—with blood.
Oh God, not Dallas.
One of the nurses slammed past Nessa, knocking her out of the way. She stumbled a step and barely caught her balance. The ground didn't feel entirely solid anymore, because Dallas had been the foundation for so many years, the strong stone on which she'd built her pretty little tower. He was family.
And he was Lex's world.
That got her feet moving. The first two steps were jerky, but then she was running. She caught Lex around the shoulders, holding her tight. At first, Lex didn't move. Then she gripped Nessa's arm so hard that her nails bit into her skin.
"He'll be okay," Nessa whispered. Not empty reassurance or a lie. A prayer. She needed to believe it, as if her belief could shape reality. "He's too stubborn to die if it means leaving you."
"I'm breathing," Lex answered blankly. "I'm breathing, and so is he."
She held Lex tighter, knowing words were useless. The blonde doctor had plenty of help now, and Nessa couldn't watch the bloody, gruesome process of trying to piece him back together. She fixed her gaze on his temple instead, and wondered when the hair there had begun to silver. When the crinkle lines next to his eye had gotten so deep.
He'd seemed so powerful and strong her whole life, it was unsettling to think about him growing old. But it was better that than the alternative.
It was only then—standing by in helpless horror as she watched a city doctor struggle to rebuild Dallas's body from broken pieces—that she realized she hadn't heard gunfire in a while.
The constant patter of it had become white noise. The lack of it echoed in her mind, looming large until something rose to replace it.
It sounded like a murmur at first, then like music—like the club did from a block away some nights, snatches of louder sound coming whenever someone opened the door. As it rose, the people closest to the opening in the wall began to drift closer.
Nessa hovered, torn between loyalty to Dallas and the need to know. But when the sound resolved itself into cheers, she released Lex and pushed through the growing crowd, using her elbows and her scowl and her O'Kane ink to make it to the front.
The view inside Eden was...apocalyptic. Rubble filled the streets. So did bodies. The wide road where the old gate had been led straight toward the heart of the city, and that was where the poorest residents of Eden were gathering. Some of them looked like they'd fought. Some looked like they'd just been swept up in the moment. But they were all screaming their support of the cluster of people coming toward Nessa.
Mad was in the front, flanked by a handful of his cousin's Riders. She caught sight of Cruz behind them, and then Bren. And in the middle…
Ryder half-pushed, half-dragged a man with a broken nose bleeding all over his pristine gray suit. Smith Peterson, his once objectively handsome face ruined—not by the broken nose, but by the contempt he no longer bothered to hide.
The citizens he was supposed to represent had gathered along the street to curse and jeer at him, and he still thought he was better than all of them.
He'd learn better. Lex would teach him, if no one else got to him first—and if Dallas didn't pull through the other side in perfect health, Peterson would beg for someone to grant him the mercy of death.
Right now, Nessa didn't feel very merciful.
Someone had brought Markovic over from the O'Kane compound. He stepped forward—without his cane—and stood in the center of the ruined street, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for the procession to reach him. When it did, he eyed the men silently, his throat working.
Then he spoke, his voice booming out over the crowd. "Smith Peterson. The people of Eden trusted you, and you betrayed that trust."
Peterson lifted his chin, still haughty. "Yes, Markovic. Soothe yourself with all the formalities and legalities before you hand me over to your tame barbarian. I underestimated you. Clever of you to get sector trash to do your dirty work."
"No remorse," Markovic observed. "You're not even sorry you got caught, are you? You're still completely convinced you had the right to use your office for nothing more than your own comfort and wealth."
"I earned that comfort," he replied, his voice full of such conviction that it made Nessa's skin crawl. "Who do you think has kept us safe all these years? Idealists who would throw open the doors and let the sectors overrun us? Bleeding hearts who let the useless idiots hold out their hands for more more more instead of forcing them to earn their place in our city?" He sneered. "Someone has to be the adult. You never had the stomach for the hard choices."
"Hard choices." Markovic echoed the words, his expression a mixture of disgust and vague pity. Then he nodded to the Riders accompanying Peterson. "Take him away."
The Riders gripped his arms and fell in behind Mad as he led them down the street, beyond the ruined city walls. Markovic's gaze followed them, the disgust and pity never diminishing. But Nessa was close enough to see the hands gripped behind his back so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
That wasn't just revulsion in his eyes. It was death, and Nikolas Markovic wouldn't need Dallas or Lex or anyone else to pull the trigger for him. When the time came, he would exact justice himself.
It was no less than Peterson deserved.
The man vanished from Nessa's mind as she turned her attention back to Ryder. He stood close to Markovic, talking in a low voice that only reached her in murmurs. Nessa swayed, fighting the urge to launch herself into the middle of whatever important political thing was happening—and into his arms.
Ryder was alive. His left sleeve was torn, revealing an angry red furrow across his upper arm that could only have come from a bullet. A medic swooped in, blocking him from view, and the numbness she'd been wrapped in for the last twenty-four hours cracked.
This time when she swayed, Trix caught her. She clasped Nessa's hand, steadying her, but it was her words that held Nessa up. "See? Ryder came home, too."
"He did." And she was relieved, so relieved. She should be floating on clouds with how fucking relieved she was.
But Amira wouldn't get this moment. Fuck, Lex might not, either. Neither would all the people who'd loved anyone stretched out in that sad,
endless line of silent bodies.
The numbness shattered, and Nessa turned into Trix's shoulder and muffled a sob. Of relief. Of grief. Of sheer, overwhelmed exhaustion.
They'd won, but Nessa had been right. It didn't feel like victory yet.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Even if half the O'Kane compound hadn't been compromised by Eden's drone attacks, Ryder would have known where to find Nessa.
Her distillery had escaped the carnage. The warehouse had some superficial damage, but the structure itself was solid. Even the bottles on the shelves inside were still upright, unbroken, and his relief knew no bounds.
Of all the loss she'd suffered, this wouldn't be part of it.
She wasn't in the distillery, or the storeroom, or her office—not that he'd suspected she would be. Instead, he headed for the aging room.
It was silent down here, insulated from the bustle of activity above, with just the soft hum of a generator and the echo of Nessa's footsteps. He followed the sound and found her running her fingers over the top of one of the heavy casks.
Her fingertips lingered over the messy scrawl, and she didn't look up even as she spoke to him. "These are his barrels. My grandfather's. I've always known I'd have to bottle and sell them someday, but it was so close…"
"They made it through the war." He reached for her shoulder but stopped just shy of touching her. "Nessa, we made it through the war."
She turned, staring up at him with big, tear-filled eyes for half a heartbeat. Then she lunged, colliding with his body and tangling her arms around his neck. "You made it through the war."
He closed his eyes, inhaling the scents of wood and spices and Nessa. "We made it. I stopped by the hospital before I came here."
Her body stiffened in his arms. "Is—is Dallas…?"
"He's gonna be fine. Dr. Bellamy has to do his regeneration therapy in stages, but he's stable. He's good."
"Oh, thank God." All of the tension seemed to rush out of her at once, and he tightened his arms to steady her. "Did you hear anything about Ace and Finn?"
"Finn's already healed up. Trix brought him home a little while ago." Ace's condition was trickier. "Santana snuck over to the children's ward. He's been drawing cartoons and decorating casts. I think he's planning a mural."
She pulled back far enough to look up at him, her shaky smile shadowed by the worry lingering in her eyes. "Is he going to be okay, though?"
She deserved the truth. "The bullet did a lot of nerve damage. They're going to try regen, but it's iffy. He may not regain full use of his arm."
"Oh." Her smile wobbled, then came back. "Well, if he's already doing art for the kids, he'll be fine. That's what all this shit was about, right? Maybe we don't all have to be ready to fight all the time anymore."
No, hopefully they'd never have to fight again. Then, instead of going back to their old lives, they could move on to something better. "I'm sorry. About the way I left things."
"Me too." Her thumb traced up and down the back of his neck. "You're so careful. And I'm impulsive. Crashing into each other and getting hurt was kind of inevitable."
"No. You asked fair questions, reasonable ones." It wasn't her fault that he couldn't answer them. But explaining meant starting at the beginning. "Can we sit down?"
Nessa stepped back and caught his hand. Silently, she led him back down the aisle, past dozens of casks of liquor, to the table where Lex had caught them kissing.
It seemed like a lifetime ago. Even under the threat of open war, they hadn't understood. He hadn't understood, after decades of being schooled on the dangers, the sacrifices. The loss. It wasn't something you could fathom, not until you were in it. And then, there was no time to process it. Battles were won or lost, people were hurt or died, but the war stopped for no one. You just had to carry on.
And now it was over. And Ryder didn't know what to do with himself.
He leaned on the table, avoiding her eyes. "They asked me—the other sector leaders, I mean—what my plans are for Five. And I don't know what to tell them, because I don't know."
She hopped up on the table next to him, her shoulder so close to his they brushed as she swung one leg. "That was never really your plan, was it? Running Five?"
"Taking over Five wasn't a goal. It was a means to an end." He finally met her gaze. "To the end, Nessa. Winning the war, that was all that mattered. It was all Jim talked about, all he seemed to care about. All he said my father cared about. And I listened. I listened so hard that I never thought about what would come after winning."
"But the cabin—"
"Was my father's dream," he finished. "I took it. I figured I would do that for him, honor his memory with it, the same way I would with the war. I didn't even realize what I was really doing."
She nodded slowly. "I get it, I think. I mean...this?" She waved an arm at the aging room. "It started off as my grandfather's dream. And, you know, I never let myself wonder if it was my dream, too. I couldn't. Too many people were depending on me."
"No." He straightened and took a few steps, trying to order his thoughts. How could she understand when he wasn't making any sense? Finally, he turned to face her. "No one shoved the cabin thing at me, because we never discussed the future past the war. It's like it didn't exist. When I called winning the end, I meant it literally. Everything I was told, everything I was taught, it all stopped there."
"Oh." Sympathy softened her gaze. "That really sucks."
"I'm so angry," he whispered. It was the first time he'd let himself think the words, much less say them aloud. "Jim spent years turning me into the perfect rebel leader, but he couldn't spare five goddamn minutes to teach me anything else."
"It's okay, you know," she said gently. "To be pissed off about it."
No, it wasn't. Because it wasn't something Jim had ever done on purpose, and now he was dead. "My mother never liked any of it. I used to think it was because she was afraid I'd die. But now…" He stepped closer to Nessa, almost close enough to touch. "I think she was afraid I'd wind up alone."
She tilted her head back to face him. "You don't have to be. But you do have to figure out what you want. Not all the details, just enough to get you started. Close your eyes and dream, Ryder."
"I don't know how," he confessed. "I tried once, and not only did I just steal my father's dream, I fucked it all up, too." He knelt in front of her. "It wasn't about the cabin. He wanted what it represented—a safe, peaceful place where he could be with the people he loved."
She touched his cheek. "I'm good at dreaming. I can come up with ten dreams right now, and I'll forget half of them by tomorrow. I don't know if life with me could ever be peaceful. Makes me feel kind of like an asshole for hoping you want to try."
"What happens when you forget them?"
"I dream up more." She smiled at him. "I'm an O'Kane princess. I never run out of dreams."
An O'Kane princess—who belonged in Sector Four. "You need to be here, don't you? This may be your grandfather's legacy, but it's your future. O'Kane Liquor."
"Maybe." She shrugged and looked away, her gaze sweeping the aging room. "Most of the time, I love it. I'm really fucking good at it. But I never got to choose it." When she looked back at him, her thumb touched the corner of his mouth. "And if it gets in the way of choosing you… I don't know. I might be a mess in your cabin, but I'd find a way to love it. Because you'd be there."
Warmth flooded him, a relief that made winning the war pale in comparison. Because he'd survived the fighting—but with Nessa, he could do more than survive. He could live. "It's not about the cabin, remember?"
"I remember." She brushed his lips again. "Close your eyes."
He obeyed as he rose. "What?"
"I'm going to dream for you." She pulled him closer, until he was standing between her knees, and framed his face with her hands. "For the next week, we're going to take care of each other, because it's going to be a hard week. And I know that even if you don't want to run Five foreve
r, you feel responsible for the people there. So you'll go and help them start to move on. And I'll be here, helping my people do the same."
She tugged him down gently, until his forehead rested on hers. "But some nights, you'll come back here, and we'll eat dinner and talk about our days and then we'll shove all the pillows off my bed and do crazy hot dirty stuff to each other. And some nights, I'll come over to Five, and you can show me where you live. And there probably won't be nearly as many pillows on the bed, but the dirty hot stuff will still be awesome. And when we make it to the end of the week…"
She was so close that her breath blew against his mouth. "The end of the week," he echoed. "What then?"
"Then we dream up the next week." She kissed him, sweet and soft and gone too fast. "Together."
Ryder licked his lips, and he could still taste her. The reality of it opened his eyes, in every way. "Just like that?"
"Why not?" She stared at him from barely an inch away. "Everything's unsettled, Ryder. I'm impulsive enough to promise I'll run away to a cabin, or ask you to move in with me and become an O'Kane...but that's not you. And that's okay. Maybe we don't have to crash into each other and get hurt. Maybe I can learn to move a little slower, and you can learn to dream selfish dreams. And we'll be better together."
He traced the bow of her mouth. "I don't want to show you where I live in Five. It's Fleming's old penthouse, and it's horrible. I want to show you my old place instead. And maybe...we can go to Eight, too."
"We can go anywhere," she promised. "That's why we fought, right?"
He fought because he'd been raised to, because it was the right thing to do. He never did it for himself—but maybe that was the first step. "Can I see the barrels?"
"Pop's?" She edged him back and slid off the table. Row after row of casks bore her neat block letters, but toward the back of the room, the writing changed. She led him back to where he'd found her and smiled as she touched the messy scrawl. "Dallas and I are the only ones who can read these. Pop wasn't a big fan of writing stuff down. He liked to keep it all in his head. He was paranoid because of how the law was cracking down before the Flares. It was illegal to do what he was doing."