“I didn’t mean it like that,” he quickly added.
“It’s okay,” she shrugged. “I understand exes, remember. Even if Olina isn’t truly an ex.”
Rhone’s fist curled at thought of other men with their hands on her, and heat crept up his neck. “I would much rather race with you.” He blinked as the honesty of the words struck him. “There is no one I’d rather race with.” He blinked again. Shit, the words were really, really true, but these were his dogs, his team. No one had ever encroached on that before.
Her green eyes watched him closely. “You don’t mean that.”
He stepped closer, bending his head down. Rhone might be wondering when this all crept up on him, but he didn’t doubt his feelings were genuine. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“About wanting a new Soar, yes.” She laughed at the surprise on his face.
A smile curved his lips. “You’ve been having fun at my expense?”
“Only a little,” she assured him. “But you know it really is a superior model.”
“I would fly it, so you know. Just make sure I won’t break my leg.”
Her laughter trailed off. “You know, I actually think you would fly it. How strange.”
Rhone tilted her chin. “Monikah, you’re the only one who believes no one will use your inventions.” He watched the pink color of her cheeks deepen, causing a foreign warmth to fill his chest.
Her eyes dropped to his lips. He leaned forward, head lowering.
Two of the dogs erupted into snarls.
“Donny, Tom, shut up!” Rhone roared, wrenching away from her. The dogs jumped apart, torn between growling at each other and casting sheepish looks at him. “They’re brothers,” he explained.
“Is that why they’re at the back? They seem like the biggest dogs.”
“Yes, they’re the muscle, the grunts. If they led the team, we’d end up at the bottom of a ravine—bloody morons. Hold on again.” Rhone walked up the line and took hold of Leo’s harness, turning the team back the way they’d come. “Let’s head back, Leo.”
The team whined and barked, eager to get started again.
Rhone ripped out the snow anchor and leaped onto the footboards as the team took off.
“How long is the race?” Monikah shouted after a few minutes.
“We go from the First Sector to the Fifth. Usually takes a day and a half.”
“Phew, you stay out in the cold overnight?”
Rhone steadied her with an arm around her waist as they went over a bump. She was wrapped in a borrowed coat, hood pulled up. He was tempted to leave his arm there, but he wasn’t quite sure where he stood with the Ire woman yet.
They were worlds apart, and holding her didn’t seem right when Rhone still wasn’t sure what the hell he was doing. He didn’t want to hurt her, so he’d figure that out first.
Releasing her waist, Rhone placed his hand back on the sled bar.
“Is that Rhone’s tunic?” Ronan asked Monikah at dinner.
Rhone paused, and then continued chewing. Giving a woman clothing meant something on Glacium, but he’d done so in a possessive moment, knowing the urchin wouldn’t think anything of it, not being from this world. The silence extended and Rhone shifted on the bench.
“Yes, I forgot to bring clothes in all the excitement,” she replied. “My head is a bit everywhere.”
Rhone relaxed somewhat and swallowed his mouthful.
Sanjay sighed. “Don’t worry, we are well used to having an inventor in the midst, remember?”
The man was oblivious to Rhone’s scowl at the mention of Adnan.
“So, just confirming that is Rhone’s tunic,” Fiona said.
Monikah’s chewing slowed. “Yes. . . .”
The occupants of the table smiled. Rhone’s face burned. He shouldn’t have given her the tunic. What if she took it off?
Fiona pursed her lips. “And he brought you food yesterday, right?”
Everyone stilled as Monikah answered, “Yes, why?”
“Have you heard about the Interworld Games?” Rhone blurted loudly.
“King Jovan announced them two nights ago,” Adnan replied.
Rhone withheld his glare. Just. The inventor had kept his distance from Monikah since the first night, so Rhone should be nice to him.
The table burst into chatter about the games, talking over each other, and slowly his heartbeat settled. All they’d needed was the distraction.
He listened to the bubbling talk with one ear, feeling his own stirrings of excitement at the promise of such a tournament. A test of this sort was every fighter’s dream, and he had to agree with the Ire leader—the effect of this tournament in breaking down cultural and class boundaries could be huge. It was just what the tri-worlds needed, in his opinion. . . . Rhone paused in eating his food, staring blankly at his plate as a heavy weight took up residence in his gut.
His stupor was broken when he heard the urchin yawn for the fifth time.
“Monikah, would you like to retire?” he asked. “You had a long day on the sleds.”
“Woooo,” Sanjay said. “Retiring.”
He’d reached his limit today. Rhone snapped out a fist.
“Fuck!” the orange-bearded man shouted. He dodged out of reach and then held up both hands at the look on Rhone’s face. “As you were, big man.”
“You’re an idiot,” Fiona told Sanjay. He gave her a sloppy kiss in response.
Monikah stood and Rhone walked out of the food hall beside her.
“Why did you try to hit Sanjay?” she asked.
“He has a big mouth.”
“He does. But he seems harmless.”
Rhone usually thought the same. But not when the man was exposing how Rhone felt in public. “He is. It’s just how things are done on Glacium—we punch each other.”
Her reply was dry. “So I’ve seen.”
They climbed the stairs in a silence only interrupted by two more yawns. When they got to her door, the Ire woman yawned again. She was cute when sleepy. Rhone inhaled with a smile, noting the lightness in his chest. Monikah pushed open her bedroom door and Rhone caught at her wrist, then stared at where he’d gripped her. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to stop her.
When she looked back at him, green eyes soft with weariness, Rhone drew her in, quickly pressing his lips to her. He’d done it now.
She pulled away with a gasp. “Rhone.”
Shit. That wasn’t the response he was hoping for. “Sorry,” he blurted. “I—”
“Shut up.” Monikah’s impish smile cut him off. She gripped the front of his tunic to rise up on tiptoes, placing her soft lips over his.
All thought left his head, and Rhone groaned, pulling her closer with a hand on her upper back. She felt incredible, warm and vital, slender and confident. And she was kissing him. He reached a hand into her golden brown tresses and moved his mouth against her pliant lips.
They both broke away, gasping.
Her eyes were hazy, and her smile just peeping out. “You just took me by surprise,” she whispered. “That’s all I meant.”
Rhone studied her, face serious. “That was some kiss.” Some kiss didn’t do it justice. He traced the planes of her face in wonder, and a knot of possessiveness flickered to life deep within him.
Monikah shrugged, and his brows slammed together.
“What?” he said.
She stepped back inside the room and tilted her head to the side. “We’ll need to practice more to get it just right. You should listen to me; you know, I am an inventor.”
Rhone jerked as she slammed the door in his face.
In the darkness of the hall, a slow grin crossed his face, accompanied by an unprecedented smoldering in his chest. He was used to practicing daily, whether it be sledding or fighting. He wondered if Monikah understood just how much practice he was willing to put in.
Chapter Seventeen
Rhone walked up to Fiona in the food hall. “Know where Monikah is?”
&nbs
p; He’d slept in after tossing and turning half the night replaying their kiss, and agonizing over her presence on the other side of the wall.
“She’s with Adnan,” Fiona answered. “They left for his place of genius an hour ago.”
Jealousy clouded his vision momentarily, before he recalled his lips had been on Monikah’s last night, not Adnan’s.
“Rhone? Is something wrong?”
He shook his head and walked away to the food table, a trick he often used as a break from the assembly members. Slathering butter on five pieces of bread, Rhone thought about the kiss last night, how the feel of her had taken his breath away. With a single kiss, Monikah had managed to make everything clear. Things he’d thought of for a long time but never made sense of, now made sense. The unaligned pieces of himself had clicked into place.
He hadn’t had a home since seven years old. He hadn’t allowed himself to have a home since seven years old. Losing his guardians had left him with a bitter sense of how the world was, so much so that he’d stopped seeing how it could be good. He’d stopped seeing secrets. Eccentric though his grandmother had been, Rhone knew she’d be disappointed to discover he’d lost the ability to find beauty in the world. Rhone was disappointed in himself, too, because his life had shown him there were things he could do to improve the tri-worlds. And he’d ignored that pull for too long, simply complaining about it instead of doing something.
Rhone knew what he had to do now.
He grabbed a chunk of cheese and a few pears and strode out of the food hall toward the kennels. An hour later, he’d harnessed his full team outside of the castle walls, and was nodding goodbye to the watchmen at the gate.
“Hike, hike, hike!” he shouted at the dogs, urging them towards the Second Sector.
To where it all began.
To where he’d once lived as a young boy.
Rhone ducked under a clothesline, peering down the shadowed lane with only a hazy memory to guide him. He’d left his team at his usual inn and then entered the Outer Rings on foot.
Night was falling, but after a day of searching to find this particular cobbled lane, returning to the inn wasn’t an option.
He was so close.
To what, he didn’t know. To finding answers? To finding closure? To reliving the worst day of his life through adult eyes?
He didn’t know why, but Rhone understood he had to go backward before he could move forward.
The few people about scrambled out of his path. Children eyed him from the darkness of alleys, retreating into the shadows when they saw his size. Rhone knew every person on the lane would be aware of his passing.
Every person in the lane eighteen years ago would have heard his screams, but Rhone couldn’t blame them for not running to his aid. Not when he’d struggled to live here, too. Minding your own business could mean you survived another day.
Stomach twisting in knots, Rhone slowed in front of a crumbling set of steps. He turned and glanced up, noting how small the stone stairs appeared now.
The abode had seen better days. The front window was boarded up; the door was splintered as though someone had taken an axe to it. The quality of housing in the Outer Rings was generally bad—rotting, collapsing, and damp—but Rhone hadn’t spent his early years in such a house.
His grandparents had protected him as much as they could.
Rhone took a steadying breath, climbed the three steps, and knocked on the splintered door.
“Get out of here,” someone shouted from inside. “I don’t want no trouble.”
The voice was older, male, and confirmed Rhone’s prediction that everyone was watching him, including the person inside.
He didn’t waste time. “Open the door or I’ll break it down.”
“Who are you?” the man answered, the wood muffling his voice.
“Five seconds,” Rhone said. “Then what’s left of the door is gone.”
The door was yanked open with a high-pitched squeak. A balding man with half his teeth glowered up at Rhone, a dagger in his hand.
“Keep walking,” the man spat.
Rhone snorted. “No.” He darted a hand out and plucked the dagger from the man’s hand, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale brew. Stepping into the house, he threw the dagger with a quick sweep of his arm, and the sharp tip embedded in the far rotting wall.
The man spluttered behind him. “Get out. This is my house.”
“Your house?” Rhone asked him, slowly turning to take in the lounge room.
Nothing remained of his early years here except the framing of the abode. The ornaments which had lined the mantel were gone, probably sold off long ago. The paintings had been burned the night the house was stolen, and the furniture, if it was the same furniture, was now unrecognizable through the burned holes and mold.
He completed his turn and stared at the man again. “How did you come by this house?”
The man set his jaw.
Rhone knew he’d stolen it. Just not from who. And oddly, he couldn’t summon any rage at the injustice of that. The man was a drunk, someone who lived in constant fear. If anything, Rhone felt sorry for him.
Looking around the place, Rhone confirmed what his seven-year-old self had realized on some level. His grandparents weren’t here any longer. He couldn’t see them in this place. He could only see them in his grandmother’s remaining paintings in the castle.
“I bought it fair and square,” the Bruma replied. “Now fuck off to wherever you came from. Rich folk think they can just barge in like they own the place.”
Rhone snorted. “I did own this place once, actually. As a young boy. You didn’t happen to steal it from a gang by any chance?”
The man’s face paled. “How did you know that?”
“What happened to the boys?” Rhone walked across the room and stuck his head through into the kitchen, which was in a worse state, if that were possible.
“Well, most of them are dead now,” the Bruma whispered. “A few left for other parts.”
Rhone glanced back. “You speak as if you knew them.”
“I did,” the man swallowed. “My name is Malt.”
It couldn’t be. If this was the leader of the gang, he could only be a few years older than Rhone, but the man before him appeared around fifty.
The man creeped closer. “You used to live here? Rhone?”
Rhone jolted. “You remember my name?”
Malt stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. “Fuck, it is you. When the hell did you get so tall?”
“You’re Malt? The boy who kicked me out of this house and,” burned my grandmother’s paintings, “and left me to die.”
“Pssh.” Malt waved a hand. “I knew you were too clever for that. Plus, it’s the way of it out here.”
The way of it. . . . Rhone released his fingers, which had curled into fists. It was the way of life in the Outer Rings, yet look where it had gotten this man. Malt appeared to have lived here since he’d kicked Rhone out, and he would likely die here.
That could have been Rhone’s life.
“I was too clever to die,” he said to Malt.
Malt eyed his clothing. “I can tell. You in the Inner Rings now?”
“I live in the castle. I fought in the Dome and the king pardoned me." He'd never spoken those words aloud to another person. He probably shouldn't have, but Jovan had publicly pardoned an entire group of pit fighters from the Dome not long ago. Malt would assume Rhone was part of that.
Sure enough, Malt's eyes widened. "That was you?"
Rhone watched the unfocused look in the man’s eye, a fresh wave of stale-brew smell washing over him. “Yes.”
The man shook his head, whistling low. “I kicked a man who survived the Dome out of his own house.” Malt laughed and then erupted into a violet fit of coughing. He thumped his chest afterward, cheeks red. “So what do you do now?”
Rhone glanced once more around the house, a tightness easing in his chest. He hadn’t left anyth
ing behind here. He’d had seven years of love and guidance to carry him through life.
And he was about to put it to good use.
He strode out the door and the man hurried after him.
“You never answered my question,” Malt called as Rhone descended the three steps and walked back the way he’d come.
Rhone snorted. The Bruma had condemned him to a life in the gutter at seven. He could and did feel sorry for the man; he couldn’t even truly begrudge him for what he’d done to survive.
But Rhone didn’t owe him shit.
He lifted an arm above his head, middle finger aimed behind him. “Get fucked, Malt.”
Chapter Eighteen
Rhone stomped his boots on the large steps outside the castle entrance to rid himself of as much snow as possible. He was grateful for the hint of heat inside the heavy double doors from the torches. The team had hit the film of water on the lake on the way back from the Second Sector, and Rhone got drenched from head to toe.
He remained fully clothed, quickening his step to reach the food hall fires sooner. Maybe he’d head to the baths later to fully defrost before visiting Monikah. He couldn’t wait to see her.
Entering the food hall, Rhone strode to the fires, shoving a few people aside to stand directly in front of the flames. The sole protestor silenced at his scowl and inched away.
Rhone’s fingers warmed and he took off his heavy outer coat, hanging the garment on a peg next to the fire. He rubbed at his arms, glancing behind him in case the urchin was still eating, but the dinner crowd was too thick to tell.
He took off his boots and wriggled his toes. Once they’d warmed, he removed his outer trousers, hanging them beside his coat. After setting his boots before the fire, Rhone weaved over to his usual table.
“Rhone,” Ronan greeted him. “You’ve been away for days.”
Rhone grunted, scanning the table.
“I am well, thank you for enquiring,” the older man said with a dry tone.
“Hello, Rhone,” Monikah said from the opposite end.
He’d started to smile at her, but the curve of his lips dropped at her frosty tone. She sat stiffly on the bench, face pinched, eye dull—she looked like she’d lost weight, too.
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