She’s not scared of me. I make her feel safe.
Dying didn’t even seem like a bad risk anymore. There was important work to do here and he was honestly glad one of his screwups might skew positive for a change.
Maybe I’m right where I need to be, put here for a reason. To help her. Protect her.
Earlier, he’d thought she was a queen, and he would be her knight until the end.
7.
Before Rowena knew it, a week passed.
Waiting was difficult, but she shouldn’t return to the comfort house before Hettie signaled. While Hettie was game, Chantisse might not want to stick her neck out after the last purge. And even if she did, the planning had been slow before. This time, progress would be glacial with constant checks, lest the network be betrayed as it had been before.
We still don’t know who did it, who told the guards what we were planning.
Rowena owed payback to that unknown traitor, as most of her associates had been sent to the block for execution. In time, she would make that soul suffer as her allies had.
Since the day they went to the comfort house, Slay maintained the pretense that they were lovers—perhaps it was even true after a fashion—and nobody had so much as glanced sideways at her. His protection felt different than the way the tyrant had marked her. Hard to explain but there was no threat inherent in this. The days ran together with constant work, limited rations, and nights spent with Slay offering himself as a shield between her and the rest of the world.
I don’t understand what he’s thinking.
Tonight, her back ached from long hours stooped over the machine. She’d heard that Golgerra exported some of their work, and she wondered if those who bought the clothing knew the circumstances behind its creation, if they purchased unaware or they didn’t care. She’d never gone shopping, except for a trip to the market with Sheyla Halek to search for medicinal herbs, but if she got the chance, she’d ask where the goods came from before buying.
Ro sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Slay asked, as they left the workshop.
She shook her head, not wanting to express her glum thoughts. They had a little time before they were required to be present in housing, but she couldn’t decide on the best way to use those moments. “I suppose I’m tired of waiting.”
“There has to be more we can do,” Slay said. “At this rate we’ll die of old age.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Disease and deprivation will take us out before we get old.”
He laughed like she’d made a joke. “I love your sense of humor.”
But she wasn’t kidding. Oddly, Slay often chuckled when she stated facts, proof that they lived in wildly disparate worlds. Initially, she tried to correct the misunderstandings, but these days she let him think she was clever and amusing.
In all honesty, she hadn’t expected to last this long. She’d imagined that as soon as the tyrant heard of her return, he would finish what he’d started years ago. Perhaps she ought to fear coming to the end of her path, but mostly she dreaded what would happen to those she cared about, if they’d be targeted after her death. That numbness was a side effect of living under constant threat; after a certain point, that cessation of anxiety was such a relief that other emotions eventually followed. Consequently, these days it was difficult for Rowena to feel anything at all. Anger was the easiest, the quickest to burn through the comfortable analgesic.
Lately, though, softer feelings tiptoed in. Rowena fought the inclination, but now there was no denying it. She was getting attached to Slay, much good that it would do either of them.
I can’t let him get hurt because of me.
As she framed the thought, a guard stepped into her path, and she moved aside automatically, the response inculcated since birth. Prisoners gave way, kept their eyes down; they were the lowest of the low.
But I flew. I felt sunlight on my skin. I learned the smell of the wind.
Everyone deserves that.
Nobody should be treated this way, no matter what they did.
She expected the guard to pass, possibly after inflicting some pain or humiliation. Instead, a familiar voice said, “It’s been a long time, Rowena.”
Her eyes shot up, and her stomach lurched. Before, she hadn’t even glanced at the man’s face, but this was Lucan, wearing a guard uniform. Unlike the old days, he was tidy from head to toe. Fair hair, impeccably cut and styled, fell across his brow. His face was clean shaven, revealing an angular jaw and an unfamiliar chin dimple. Even his eyes were different when he stared, the blue of an ocean untouched by light or warmth. He regarded her with icy composure, waiting for her to speak.
“It has,” she agreed.
“I’d say you’re looking well, but…” He lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug, as if he couldn’t be bothered with a polite lie.
This must have been what Wendell meant when he said Lucan was different than she recalled. Nothing could have prepared her for this, as Lucan had been a prisoner before. The caste shift simply wasn’t possible under normal circumstances. The only way he could’ve risen so far was if—
“It was you.” Traitor. Murderer. With colossal self-control, she held the words in. So many good people died to feed Lucan’s ambition.
Lucan chortled softly. “Did you just figure that out? Tycho was right…your primary asset is not your mind.”
Slay took a step forward, and she sensed that he was about to start trouble. They couldn’t afford to draw attention with Hettie and possibly Chantisse working behind the scenes, and she didn’t want Slay sent to the box again. Even if he healed at an extraordinary rate, he still experienced the pain.
She put up a hand. “Don’t. He’s not worth it.”
Lucan made a scoffing noise. “One thing hasn’t changed. You always had people sniffing around, desperate to heal your damage, to make you love them back, but we know the truth, don’t we, Ro? There’s no love in you to give. You’ll never admit it, but you belong to Vega. Deep down you’ll always be too frightened to offer your heart to anyone else.”
What the hell.
There might as well be barbed wire wrapped around her insides, squeezing with painful compressions. “Is that why?” Rowena swallowed a futile curse. “It would be bad enough if you betrayed everyone to better your circumstances, but…you did this because I didn’t love you, Lucan? I hope you never sleep soundly for the rest of your life and that the angry dead who trusted you whisper in your ears until you can’t stand it.”
“Damn,” said Slay, looking faintly impressed.
Lucan laughed, this time the sound utterly without humor. “You think I ever slept well in the first place? I suspect things have been peaceful for you thus far because people are avoiding Tycho. Nobody’s had the nerve to inform him of your return with the war effort going so poorly. But rest assured, I’ll carry word myself. I’m sure he’ll call for you soon.”
Sickness roiled in her stomach. It overwhelmed her in a rush and she puked on his highly polished boots. Lucan skittered back in disgust.
“Terror from the thought of seeing Tycho?” he mocked. “Or did someone finally manage to impregnate you? Your life would’ve been so different if Tycho had gotten the bastard he wanted from you, little concubine.”