“I never wanted to bring it up. Can you sit on the edge of the tub?” he asks.
I nod, my teeth still chattering, and sit down with my back as straight as possible. From his pocket, Hawthorne extracts a bandage and a roll of medical tape. He kneels in front of me. Using a towel, he dries my chest and abdomen before wrapping the bandage around my rib cage and then binding it tight with the tape.
“This is old-fashioned,” I murmur. “They have laser fusion for broken ribs.”
Hawthorne grimaces. “I hate that surgery. I’d rather tape them. In my opinion, this hurts less. We used to do this instead of the invasive procedure at the Base. It takes longer to heal, though.” He pauses and his gaze meets mine. “I can’t do that surgery here. My medical drone isn’t equipped. I’d have to take you to a medical facility. Do you want me to?”
I frown. “No, they’ll separate us.”
“They’re going to do that anyway, Roselle. We’ll have to submit to questioning at some point, but I’m hoping to avoid it for as long as possible.”
“I’ve had the laser-fusion procedure done a few times. You’re right; it hurts like someone is soldering your guts. I’d rather you tape them instead.”
Hawthorne nods and resumes the work of bandaging my ribs. When he’s finished, he pulls the sides of the robe closed and ties the belt. His hands take mine, and he helps me to my feet. His fingers feel hot. The robe is too long. I look down at my hidden feet and the pool of fabric on the floor. “Giant,” I whisper.
His hands let go of mine. He cups my face and leans down to brush my lips with a tender kiss. “Your giant,” he whispers.
“Yes, my giant.” I deepen the kiss, even though my side aches unceasingly.
Sensing my pain, Hawthorne pulls away and takes one of my hands. We walk to his room. A tea urn, cups, and a tiered tray laden with petite sandwiches rest atop a hovering cart.
Hawthorne pours me a cup and offers it on a saucer. I ignore the saucer, lifting the delicate porcelain in my frigid grasp. It’s piping hot. I take a small sip, feeling its warmth all the way to my belly. He pours another cup for himself. We both devour the finger food, standing over the tray like heathens. A yawn escapes me.
Hawthorne takes my empty cup. With a hand on my back, he leads me to his bed. Gingerly, I climb in. I try to lie on my back, but it’s intolerable, so I turn onto my left side. There isn’t a comfortable position. “Do you want another pain reliever?” he asks. I nod. He gives me a tablet and some water. I swallow it and then lie back. Hawthorne settles in next to me, spooning me, careful to rest his arm on my hip instead of my ribs. The heat radiating from him is irresistible. I press my back firmly against his chest. He kisses my hair.
What we’re doing is a crime, a punishable offense. A secondborn in the same bed as a firstborn is even more taboo than two secondborns being caught together. Unless it’s a sanctioned encounter in a pleasure house—regulated, restricted to a one-time event, with no relationship or offspring resulting—it’s a violation of law. But this is intimacy. The deadliest crime. The penalty for me is much more severe than it would be for him. He’d pay a fine. I’d pay the price. The danger suits me. I thread my fingers through his.
“Missed you,” I whisper.
“I don’t sleep well without you. I keep reaching for you, but you’re never there.”
“I’m here now.”
“We need a plan.”
“I know.” I try to focus on the problem, to come up with a plan that allows me to stay with Hawthorne, but his snuggling is like a lullaby, and I can’t even find a way to stay awake.
Pressure on my side brings me up from a deep sleep. I want to ignore it, but the hand squeezes tighter. Pain brings my eyebrows together. I whimper. It’s hard to breath without my whole side aching. I open my eyes. It’s near dawn. The horizon is a bruising of light, blocked by a dark silhouette. I lift my head from the pillow, my vision blurs from exhaustion. Blinking a few times, my eyes focus.
Reykin is seated in one of the wingback chairs, blotting out the view of the lake. A tight black shirt and military-style pants highlight his formidable figure. I almost don’t see the black fusionmag resting on his lap. The golden light of his shooting-star moniker hides beneath a black leather glove. I haven’t seen him seethe with anger like this since I first encountered him on the battlefield. “Get your clothes,” he says.
Hawthorne, still spooning me, whispers in my ear, “Don’t move.” His hand on my hip is no longer heavy, but tense, poised.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Reykin. Fear wends its way through me. He clutches the weapon in his lap threateningly.
“I came to rescue you,” he says with the menacing ring of hard-fought patience.
“Rescue me?” My groggy mind stutters. It takes me a second to remember last night.
“Get. Your. Clothes.” Reykin doesn’t raise his voice, but it feels like he slapped me. I tense with a sick dread that he’ll hurt Hawthorne if I don’t obey him.
“Who are you?” Hawthorne snarls. “How did you get past my security?”
Reykin doesn’t answer him but continues to stare at me with barely controlled rage. I mutter, “It’s complicated, Hawthorne.” I raise myself up on my elbow and wince. My fingers go to my sore ribs, holding them, hoping to stave off the pain. It does little. I turn to Reykin. “Put your gun away.”
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t shoot him,” he replies. “Now get dressed. We’re leaving.”
“Hawthorne saved my life last night.”
“So you slept with him.” It’s not a question; it’s an accusation.
The rumble of Hawthorne’s deep voice contains its own barely restrained fury. “Who is this, Roselle?”
My eyes narrow at Reykin. I shift, moving my feet to the floor and sitting up with difficulty. My hair falls in my face. I bend at the waist, hoping to gain some relief, but it doesn’t help, so I straighten.
“Who are you?” Hawthorne roars at Reykin.
Instead of answering, Reykin asks him, “Did you tell her that you’re engaged?”
My gasp feels like a knife through the ribs, straight into my heart. Hawthorne’s jaw is rigid. I try to meet his eyes, but he won’t look at me. “I’m not engaged,” he denies.
“Oh no?” Reykin asks. “I just imagined that announcement this week in The Sword Social?”
I know the firstborn Star is telling the truth. He doesn’t lie to me.
“I didn’t agree to it.” Resentment is thick in Hawthorne’s tone. “My parents made that marriage contract without my consent. Fauna Kinwrig was my brother Flint’s fiancée. They think I have a moral obligation to fulfill that promise to her.”
Reykin’s blue eyes are unwavering. “That will be a difficult contract to break. The Kinwrigs are powerful. I’m sure they like the sound of Fauna Trugrave just a little too much, given what comes with the name.”
“Hard to break, but not impossible.”
“Do you know what would happen to Roselle, a secondborn, if she were found like this in your bed? They’d whip the skin off her back—and that’s just the beginning. And do you know what would happen to you?” He pauses. “Nothing. You’d get to live on and marry Firstborn Kinwrig.”
I get to my feet, unable to sit any longer. My ribs are aching, and my heart is breaking. I clutch my side and move toward the bathroom.
“Roselle!” Hawthorne calls.
“Don’t move,” Reykin orders him, raising the barrel of the fusionmag.