Beyond Jealousy

by Kit Rocha

  As soon as they'd retreated to the safety of Ace's room, Rachel slid her arms around him and buried her face against his shoulder.

  "It's okay," he whispered, leading her to the bed. He didn't even kick off his pants, just rolled onto the mattress with a groan and held out one arm to her.

  "Adrian Maddox," Cruz said as she slid under the covers beside Ace. Cruz remained next to the bed, his gaze fixed on empty air. "Adrian Rios. I knew he was Gideon Rios's cousin, but I never connected him with the civil war in Sector One."

  "It was a long time ago," Rachel murmured. And a time best left forgotten--except when it reared up to snatch Mad in its jaws once again.

  "Not long enough," Ace countered. He shifted closer as Cruz stretched out on his other side, but for once he was sheltered between them. Protected. "It's easier to snap him out of it if someone can understand him, but my Spanish has always been shit. It drove my mentor crazy. Like it should be in my blood or something."

  "You did good." Rachel rubbed her knuckles over the reddened skin of his throat, a featherlight touch meant to soothe. "Better than anyone else could have. You knew what he needed."

  "I guess." He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. "It's happened a couple times before. Never this bad."

  Cruz laid his arm across Ace, settling his hand on her hip. "He hit his head pretty hard. It probably made the disorientation worse."

  "He'll be all right," Rachel told them. Sure, certain, because it had to be true. Seeing Mad in this kind of pain hurt too much.

  "Yeah he will." Cruz tightened his fingers on her hip, his palm a comforting weight as he carefully changed the subject. "I think my mother was from down south, across the old border, but I never learned to speak anything but English. Didn't fall within likely mission parameters, and I had other aptitudes."

  Rachel had been separated from her family in adulthood, after spending her entire life basking in their attention and love. She couldn't imagine growing up knowing they were out there, but not knowing them. Not even definite details. "I'm sorry, baby."

  "It wasn't that bad," he said quickly. "I was in the most comfortable position on the Base. One of the elite soldiers, but not..."

  "Not what?"

  He stayed silent, his fingers stiff until Ace slid a hand on top of his. "It's okay if you can't tell us."

  "Not can't. Shouldn't, maybe." Cruz stared at the ceiling. "They trained me from birth, almost literally. My mother probably lived on the Base. She might have known who I was, but she never let on. That's how strong the loyalty is. You have your place, your orders, whether you're a soldier or a child or a cook or a whore. The mission comes first."

  Even worse, to suspect his mother was that close and never know for sure. "What's the mission?" she asked carefully. "What could be that vital? To protect Eden?"

  "That's what Eden thinks. Maybe it started out that way. But I'm not the most dangerous kind of soldier the Base created."

  Flat words, matter-of-fact, but they sent a frisson of warning shivering up Rachel's spine. "What does that mean?"

  "The spooks," Ace said. "He's talking about the mindfuck spooks. Didn't you have those stories in Eden?"

  "Never."

  "They can read your minds and make you disappear out of your bed." Ace snorted. "My uncle used to tell me the spooks would know if I stole from his cashbox. Because if I had some psychic warriors, that's what I'd do with them--send them after punk teenagers who'd pilfered beer money."

  Ace was joking, but Cruz was so still. So very still. "They're not psychic. But their brains function on so high a level that the difference can seem negligible."

  That was something she had heard, rumors that no one believed but that refused to die anyway. "Genetic modification," she mumbled. "Engineering super soldiers. The city abandoned that project before it even got off the ground."

  "The city did," Cruz agreed. "The city forgets it doesn't control the Base. In fact, it started the other way around."

  The military coup was a fact of history, either a glorious victory or a tragic abuse of power, depending on who you believed--schoolbooks, or the old timers who would only talk of such things in hushed whispers at the tail end of boisterous parties, when they thought all the children were already asleep in the other room. Even now, there were those in the poorer parts of the city, the areas that weren't supposed to exist, who maintained that the Council was little more than a sham, a pretty lie to keep everyone complacent while the men with the guns and tanks ran the real show.

  Cruz seemed to be implying something else entirely. "If they're not under city control..."

  Another endless pause. Cruz rubbed his thumb over her hip in small, endless circles, as if the touch grounded him. "You don't know what it's like to leave the base and see Eden for the first time. We lived in barracks, without families, without luxury. We went on missions to other cities in the area to destabilize threats and steal resources. We fought and we bled and some of us died, and Eden burns through resources like the flares never happened."

  The waste was enough to drive anyone mad, even if you hadn't spilled and shed blood to secure it. But there were no words, no comfort she could offer that she hadn't already, so she squeezed his hand.

  Ace found the words. He always did. "It's fucking bullshit. You know how many of us never got to have parents? And you could have, and they just... What, thought they'd make you too soft?"

  "Families divide loyalty," Cruz replied, not sounding upset about it. "All relationships do."

  "Not here," Rachel said. "Family is loyalty. That's what being an O'Kane means."

  "When things are going well," he agreed easily. "And when they're not? If you had to choose between Lex and Dallas? Or Dallas and Ace?"

  "That wouldn't happen." She met Ace's gaze and held it. "Sticking together is the most important thing. It's bigger than any of us. I get it now, what you've always tried to tell me. You have my back."

  Ace's eyes were normally dark, an unrelieved brown a few shades deeper than his hair, but in the shadows of the room they seemed swallowed by blackness as he touched her cheek. "In all the ways I can, no matter what."

  She trapped his hand against her cheek. "What about you? Where do you come from, Alexander Santana?"

  "Seven blocks southeast." His lips curled up. "Unlike the rest of you, I'm a Sector Four native."

  As if she'd been talking about geography. It was a deflection, pure and simple, and it cut through Rachel like a rusty blade. All this time, everything they'd shared, and here it was again. The part of Ace he held back.

  A part she could never touch.

  Maybe the pain showed on her face. His hand slipped away and he turned his gaze back to the ceiling, and more words came. "I did my time in Eden, though. Not as much as you two, but probably softer living. I even had an apartment for a while, one of those nice ones on the river. Couldn't really leave it, since I didn't have a bar code, but it was swanky."

  Rachel swallowed hard. "You don't have to tell us."

  "It's not a secret. It's just..." He laughed, tight and a little pained. "My poor ego. Ultimate hero lover boy here is hot as fuck, but he's a tough act to follow."

  Cruz frowned, lifting himself up on one arm to study Ace. "None of what I did took thought or initiative. I followed orders, for the most part, sometimes very unheroic ones."

  "Same here." Rachel shrugged. "My family had plans for me. I never embraced them, but I never fought them very much, either."

  "I guess." Ace's sudden smile held the wicked edge she loved, the one that said, I'm about to be bad, and you know you want to be bad with me. "I do have one secret. Only Jared knows the truth. You know about the home-wrecker paintings?"

  Who didn't? Ace had acquired his reputation for sin long before becoming an O'Kane. "Sure. There was always gossip about your patrons in Eden."

  "Yeah, well, there are a hell of a lot more paintings floating around than I ever had patrons. Once or twice a year, Jared helps me sell one to some n
itwit with more money than brains. You wouldn't believe what they'll pay to own a piece of the scandal."

  It was just ridiculous enough to be brilliant. Rachel stared at him. "You're kidding, right?"

  "Nope. I did one for a patron--my first patron--and it really did cause a huge damn scandal. But after that..." He shrugged. "My mentor told me not to repeat that mistake. But plenty of Eden's finest fancy ladies like to pretend I did."

  Even Cruz laughed as he relaxed back to the bed. "That's incredible."

  "I know," Ace replied. "I'm amazing."

  Flippant words, an easy match to their laughter. But something about the way Ace looked left a tense knot in her belly that refused to ease. His usual charm had been subsumed by an intensity that seemed out of place, even on a night like this.

  Only maybe it wasn't. Mad had almost died, and witnessing his resultant trauma had been painful enough without his hand around her throat. Everyone was on edge.

  So she snuggled closer to Ace, tucked her face into the hollow of his shoulder, and told herself things would be better in the morning.

  Ace didn't know how old he was. He had vague memories of a mother who had died when he was young. Old enough to walk and talk and love drawing, but not old enough to understand why his mother hadn't come home to slap a meal on the table, or that she was gone for good.

  It was a nice, juicy sob story. Better when he omitted the uncle who'd swooped him up off the streets before he'd been there more than a week, and Ace had never been above a little creative license.

  Words had never been his thing, but he could use them for that much. Hair falling over his forehead, eyes big and sad. He spun out the story of little orphan Alexander drawing on his cheap sketchpad with his chubby fingers, oblivious to the fact that his mama was never coming home, and panties melted away like snow in July.

  Fuck, he was a piece of work.

  He hauled another oversized portfolio folder off the shelf and tossed it onto his desk with enough force to send the cup holding his colored pencils rattling to the floor.

  "Hey, now." Emma stood in the open doorway, one eyebrow raised. "You want to not trash the place, Santana? What the hell are you doing here this early, anyway?"

  Good fucking question, especially since he'd left Rachel and Cruz curled up together in his own damn bed. Not that it had been possible to crawl out from between them without waking Cruz--the man snapped to high alert at a whisper--but Ace had simply tilted his head toward the bathroom. Cruz had nodded, rolled over into the empty space Ace had left behind, slung an arm over Rachel, and gone back to sleep.

  Of course he had. Cruz could roll into any empty space and fill it up just fine, because he was fucking perfect.

  "Ace." Emma's brow plummeted into a frown as she stared at him. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," he grumbled, slapping open the portfolio. The top sketch fluttered toward the floor, and he caught it with one hand. A half-formed design for a tattoo stared back at him, sketched with adolescent clumsiness but clear emotion. A grim reaper, his scythe dripping blood, his skeletal face twisted in a chilling laugh. "I'm just looking for something."

  "Bullshit."

  He finally gave her his full attention, fixing on her worried expression. "Shit, what are you doing out of bed? I figured Noah'd be burning through adrenaline for half the night."

  She propped her hands on her hips. "Don't change the subject. What gives?"

  Emma had been easier to deal with in the beginning. So bright and eager, but sweet, too. Already a damn good artist, showing up with a stack of beautiful sketches, most of them better than Ace's uncle had ever dreamed of being, but she hadn't been pushy about telling him what to do.

  Sometimes he missed those days. "You're a pain in the fucking ass, you know that? If I want to ransack my studio for no goddamn reason, I will."

  She snorted. "Get pissy with me if you want, but I still think you'd be better off using your words."

  The hurt and anger pulsing in his chest found a focus--if not a target. "The only words I've got are the filthy ones. I've never fronted about that, so I don't know why in hell you all expect better."

  "You've always been hardest on yourself." Emma tossed her bag on the desk with a sigh. "How can you be so damn generous with other people, and then treat yourself like such shit?"

  Because he deserved it. Because Rachel had asked a soulful question about Ace's past, and for a second he'd actually imagined trying to say it all.

  I was a whore when you were still a kid, but I wasn't even a good one because I'm a self-obsessed narcissist who mostly just wants to have fun with his dick. And while Cruz was off bumping off bad guys and saving babies, I was playing temperamental artist fuck-toy to a bunch of women Noelle used to have over for tea and dinner parties. Boohoo, isn't my life sad.

  At least Ace the tragic orphan had had a mother. An uncle. He'd had a mentor who'd given him a profitable skill set and a sense of connection to his ancestors and his heritage. He'd had Jared and Gia, who'd been his family long before the O'Kanes.

  And he'd had Dallas. Lex. Jas and Mad and Nessa and everyone who had joined over the years, an ever-expanding network of family who loved him unconditionally, even when he was selfish, even when he was a narcissistic asshole who only wanted to have fun with his dick.

  Cruz had nothing. Fucking nothing. No parents to teach him to love, no family, no warmth and tenderness. He'd had rules and regulations and brutality.

  All of Ace's excuses for not being able to love looked pretty fucking flimsy with Cruz standing there, getting it done.

  Ace flipped through a few more sketches without really seeing them, just to have something to do with his hands. "Maybe I know I have it coming. Ever considered that?"

  "Of course I have. It's the obvious answer."

  The next sketch crumpled as his fingers tightened. "Obvious, huh?"

  "Yeah, to anyone who knows and loves you."

  "You think you know me, kid?"

  She leaned forward and braced her hands on the far edge of the desk. "Don't be patronizing, Ace. I know you better than you think, because I watch you every day. I see what you do when you're not thinking about what you should be doing."

  His heart jackknifed halfway to his throat, but he made himself lean in until they were face-to-face. "And what's that?"

  "You care," she answered softly. "You love, Ace. Maybe harder than anybody else I've ever met."

  "I love easy," he corrected, grinding the words into his own heart like a reminder. "I love fast. I love everyone. But it's not hard, and it's not deep. It never was, and it's never enough."

  Emma straightened with a groan. "I know that look. Don't, okay? Whatever you're gonna do, just...wait."

  "I'm not doing anything," he snapped, but the words fell flat, like the lie they were. He was spinning out of control, panicking as hard as he had the last time he'd shattered Rachel's heart. Only this time there wasn't any comfort in telling himself he was doing the right thing by walking away, because this time there was no right thing.

  He flipped over another stack of sketches, and there it was.

  The paper was old, faded. So was the drawing. He could have been six or seven. Maybe five, maybe eight. The years were blurry, but the memory never was. He could remember the scratched table, so small his paper had covered almost the entire surface. He could remember the pencils--his mother had done six months' worth of extra mending to afford them, sitting up by the light of the cheap, stinking candles and sewing until her fingers were numb.

  Five in all, but the true miracle had been that three were color. Blue, orange, and green--those had defined the art of his childhood, because they were the only colors that had existed for him.

  God only knew where he'd seen a dragon, not that the sketch beneath his fingers was a very good rendition of one. Wobbly lines, no shading, terrible proportions. But he'd labored over it for hours, ignoring the empty gnawing in his stomach and the growing darkness, coloring in each individ
ual scale with a mixture of blue and green. Laboring over the orange flames shooting from a mouth lined with giant, pointy teeth.

  Ace traced his finger past the fire, down to the awkward figures half-sketched at the dragon's feet. A woman and a boy, though you couldn't really tell from the unfinished outlines. He'd been working on that part when his eyelids got too heavy, desperate to finish before his mother came home.

  A dragon to protect us, Mama.

  While he'd been trying to capture the fall of her long, black hair, she'd been bleeding out in an alley, an accidental victim in a shoot-out between rival drug runners. It had happened all the time before Dallas wrested Sector Four from the grip of his predecessor. Ace's story had never been special, except for its relatively happy ending.

  The dragons he'd tattooed onto Cruz's skin were sophisticated. They were elegant, beautiful, a crowning fucking achievement of ink in black and gray, and they were just as childishly hopeful as this drawing.

  A dragon to protect me.

  Ace had heard the warning under Cruz's words, even if Rachel hadn't. Relationships divided loyalties. A world where Rachel had to choose between Dallas and Ace was almost unfathomable.

  A world where she had to choose between Ace and Cruz was damn near inevitable.

  Ace was like that faulty stick of dynamite that had nearly obliterated Mad last night, no matter how much he tried to keep his shit under control. No one knew exactly when he was going to blow. He didn't even know. He just knew it was coming, one way or another, and that he'd been lying to himself all along.

  Being in love with them both didn't change anything. Ace fucked up. It was what he did, who he was. When he detonated everything they'd built together, Cruz would protect Rachel. Rachel would protect Cruz. No one would protect Ace.

  But he'd known that. Hell, he'd counted on it. Little orphan Ace, abandoned again. The best sob story yet.

  If he didn't get out before they claimed the last shreds of his heart, he might not survive long enough to tell it.