My hands slip under his shirt, feeling his muscles beneath my fingertips. I push away the black fabric. He grasps the hem, lifting it off over his head and dropping it on the floor. The sight of him makes me long to be his again. I wish he were still secondborn. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. He was mine then. I want him back.
His hands thread through my hair, pulling it from its knot. The strands unfurl around my shoulders and down my back. His expression turns fiercer, and he tugs off my eyewear. With his hands under my thighs he picks me up. I wrap legs around his waist and my wrists around his neck, drawing his mouth to mine. We kiss as he carries me to his bed and sets me down. My back touches the blankets. His knee digs into the mattress beside my hip. Long fingers splay in my hair. Firm lips hover above me.
Inching up my black shirt, Hawthorne pulls it over my head and tosses it haphazardly on the floor. “How are your ribs?” he asks. His eyes move with his fingers, stroking a path down my skin, gently touching the ones that were broken. It’s both sensual and ticklish. Gasping softly, I suck in my bottom lip to keep from giggling. A rush of desire overtakes me. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.” I breathe the word, but I don’t know if it’s true. I ache for him to keep touching me—to never stop. “I’m okay now. I had them repaired.”
His lips travel with whisper-softness over my ribs, his warm breath against my cool skin. I inhale sharply. His finger hooks in the fabric of my black bra—the valley between the cups where the clasp lies. “If I’m not mistaken, this isn’t military issue,” he murmurs. His fingertips rim the edges of the fabric.
Heat pours through me. My skin flushes. “They gave me girl clothes.”
“Oh, I noticed.” His finger deftly unclasps my bra.
His shadow of a beard skims against my breast. His mouth latches on to my hardened nipple. I arch up against his lips, my eyes closing, my mouth opening. His tongue flicks, and my ache intensifies to a burning need. I grip his arm, digging into his muscle. “Hawthorne,” I whisper harshly.
“I missed your voice.” He growls low against me, kissing the valley between my breasts. “The raspy way you say my name when you want me. It rushes under my skin.”
“I always want you.”
“You’re all that matters to me,” Hawthorne confesses. That, too, is an act of treason. He rests his forehead against my belly and sighs. “This isn’t how I saw this night ending.”
“Hawthorne, this is how I want every night with you to end.”
He closes his eyes. “I love you, Roselle.”
“Maybe it’s okay . . . maybe just this one time . . .”
Hawthorne opens his eyes and shakes his head. “We can’t, Roselle. They’d murder you. I won’t risk it. We shouldn’t even be doing this—especially here. Just kissing could get you flayed. I’m so weak around you.” He gets off the bed, finds my shirt, and hands it to me. I reclasp my bra and slip my shirt on.
He sits beside me and then lies back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. I rest my cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. He wraps his arms around me. I know I need to go. Dawn is coming. I try to sit up, but his arms tighten.
“Hawthorne,” I whisper.
He kisses my hair. “I know,” he replies, but his arms don’t loosen.
“How long are you staying at the Halo Palace?”
“I have to leave first thing in the morning.”
“Why?” I apply a bit more pressure, and he relents, easing his grip on me. I rise on my elbow so I can see his face. He reaches for my hair, tucking strands of it back behind my ear.
“They already know what happened at the social club,” he says. “It was captured by the surveillance drones. They just wanted to know why I was there.”
“Do they know about us?”
“Not in the winter corridor—just in the gallery and ballroom. Salloway told them that the snowy hallway isn’t monitored because it’s private, and the members like it that way. But you only had to watch us together in the gallery to see my devotion to you.”
My voice softens, “You jumped after me, even when you thought I might already be dead.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty clear I’m in love with you.”
“And I love you, Hawthorne, but . . .” I think for a moment. “How did you explain being there?”
“I told them I came there to see you because we were secondborn friends.”
“How did The Virtue take that?”
Hawthorne exhales deeply. “He didn’t like it—said I was firstborn now and I ought to know better than to try to maintain friendships with secondborns. Then he gave me another honorary title and a small piece of land in the Fate of Seas for my ‘bravery’ at the social club, and told me I’m not allowed to see you anymore. Then he wished me well with my engagement.” Hawthorne’s jaw ticks with tension.
My throat tightens. Now there’s no hope in appealing to The Virtue to break the marriage contract between Hawthorne and Fauna. “Will I see you again?”
“Seeing you again is the only thing that will occupy my mind,” he says, “until I find a way.”
“I hope it’s soon. I have to go,” I whisper. “Good-bye, Hawthorne.” My own devastation is almost more than I can bear. I kiss his cheek, get to my feet, and retrieve the orbs and night-vision glasses. Shoving the orbs in my pocket, I put on the glasses and move toward the door. I tug on the handle, but Hawthorne’s hand reaches past my shoulder and holds the door closed.
“I’ll never talk,” he whispers. “Your secret is safe, but you knew that already. I have to think about everything else.”
A shiver slides through me. I lean back against him, feeling the strength in his powerful body. I turn around and meet his eyes. He leans down and kisses me with a yearning that threatens to destroy us both. When he lifts his lips from mine, I murmur, “Thank you, Hawthorne,” and then slip out the way I came.
Chapter 12
Lullaby of Insomnia
I’m confined to the Halo Palace.
It’s even worse than prior to the attack. Now I’m followed everywhere by hovering Virtue stingers for my “protection,” just like Grisholm. And like Grisholm, I’m restricted to the Firstborn Commander’s private residence. Security has been reinforced with increased Exo presence and heightened technology provided by Salloway Munitions. Huge mechanized weapons were airlifted and placed on the cliff outside my balcony, just beyond the garden. The guns can track and shoot just about anything out of the sky without much trouble. They can do the same to people.
Reykin hasn’t visited me in a couple of days, even though he can. I told him that Hawthorne agreed to stay silent and to think about helping us. I thought Reykin would be happy to hear that, but he didn’t take the news well. Instead, he stomped around my apartment, giving me the silent treatment while working on Phoenix’s hover mode. I was too tired to argue with the firstborn Star, but Phoenix doesn’t clang anymore. It silently glides everywhere it goes.
Reykin left shortly after dawn the morning I’d returned from speaking to Hawthorne in his room. He’d mumbled an excuse about discussing everything that’s happened with Dune and Daltrey. I haven’t seen him since. Not that he hasn’t seen me. Through Phoenix, he can surveil me anytime he wants, although I think I can tell now when Phoenix is in auto mode and when the mechadome is Reykin-possessed. It’s a subtle changeover. Phoenix doesn’t “watch” me in the literal sense. It sort of just keeps track of me. But Reykin-possessed Phoenix is a stalker. Like now. It’s just parked in front of me, staring, as I lie on the sofa in the den. I’d throw a blanket over its head, but it will just pull it off, so it doesn’t seem worth the effort.