The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)

I jerked awake, the acrid smell of smoke thick in my nostrils, expecting to see the warden’s shocked face bathed in a halo of flames. The sudden movement caused a wave of pain to ripple through my muscles, stretched taut and stiff against my bones. I gasped and flopped back against the pillows, staring up at the canvas tent overhead.

It took me a minute to remember that we had moved out of the farmhouse—the small room Viggo and I had been staying in was now reserved for the sick or wounded, and now, since I was able to stand up and get around freely, and my arm, ribs, and skull were healing with no complications, I would just have to visit every so often. Besides, it was kind of hard to lead an army of refugees camping in tents when they saw us come out of our comfortable bedroom every morning. Viggo had insisted we move to be on the same level of comfort that they were, and I had gladly agreed.

It wasn’t even uncomfortable. Thanks to Viggo’s knowledge, our little nest on the ground was cushioned enough to support all my stiff limbs, and warm and cozy in spite of the mucky conditions outside. We were right next to Cad, Margot, and their two children, too. It was nice, all things considered.

I breathed through the stiffness and bruises, shaking off the lingering tremors of the nightmare. Instead, I turned my mind toward the familiar sounds of the camp, the birds singing in spite of the lateness of the season, and the feel of the sun overhead, trying desperately to warm up the cold earth below. It helped chase away the anxiety that had haunted my dream, and gave me a little time to stretch out my legs and arms.

Lifting up my shirt, I groaned when I saw, even from the weird angle of looking down at my own body, the two purple splotches that marred my chest and collarbone. I was more grateful than ever that I had found that vest—Desmond would have ended my life.

It was a sobering thought, and one I didn’t intend to dwell on. I was alive, safe with the people I loved—and we’d found Tim. I should be cheerful and relieved. But we’d been forced to take Desmond back to our base on the off chance that she had really arranged for the boys to be killed if she went missing. And we now had less than seven days to figure out what to do with her… The notion poisoned my joy and sent anxiety churning through me.

I’d hated the idea of shooting my enemy while she was down, unarmed. But in this case, it would have been the safest thing we could do. I didn’t want to live in this constant fear of Desmond anymore.

Too late for that now. Desmond was dangerous—I was keenly, intimately aware of that—but we had to make the best of it. I knew we would have to go to great lengths to keep our camp safe from her, including keeping her from seeing any of the Liberators who were now working with us—that was a secret we needed to keep badly.

I tried to be optimistic. Maybe, just maybe, we could get something out of her. Anything, even something small, would be helpful. When that didn’t really work, I simply pushed the nerves aside, knowing I couldn’t really change them until the situation was better.

Besides, I had more important things to do. Like see my brother.

Oh, and deal with Owen.

I sank farther into my pillows, and considered the real possibility of staying in bed. With everything that had happened last night, the emotional high of discovering my brother, right in the middle of the emotional blow of Owen selling me out to Desmond, was a strange mixture of relief and a gut check to the stomach. Both left me breathless, nervous, and uncertain.

It took me a moment to realize that I was nervous to see Tim. Was he mad at me for not finding him sooner? Did he blame me for not trying harder to find him? I prayed he didn’t view this as I did: another failure to protect him.

And with Owen, I wasn’t even sure what to expect. I knew Viggo and the others would want to know what happened with everything. Knowing the rest of our crew, they probably suspected this situation was an accident, or bad timing. But Owen and I both knew the truth. I hoped he didn’t expect me to lie for him—I didn’t think our relationship could take another hit on that level.

I shook my head and threw back my covers, the cool air making my skin prickle. Last night had been one of the most difficult nights I had ever faced—worse, in some ways, than when I’d squared off with Tabitha at the palace—and I had survived. I was not going to sit back on my laurels, today of all days, when so much was happening. Tim wasn’t going to blame me, and so help me, I was going to find a way of handling Owen.

I got dressed slowly, taking my time so as to not aggravate my injuries. A quick check of my watch marked the time as a few minutes before ten. Viggo had probably opted to let me sleep, something for which, today, I was extremely grateful.

Slipping on my socks, I padded slowly toward the flap over the entrance, pulling it back some and sitting down right at the edge. My boots were right outside on the ground, under the edge of the rain fly—another of Viggo’s tricks for keeping the tent as clean as possible. I quickly slipped them on and began to tug awkwardly on the laces, hating that I still only had full use of one hand.

I looked up as Margot stepped around the tent, a basket of clothes on her hip. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and then a smile broke out on her face, her white teeth practically glistening under the winter sun.

“Violet!” she exclaimed brightly. “Viggo told me to keep an eye out for you. He made you a plate of food, but didn’t want to wake you up this morning. I’ll go get it.”

I smirked as she set down the basket and disappeared into her tent, reappearing after a moment with a battered tin plate covered with a clean cloth. “Here you go, dear,” she said affectionately, pushing the plate into my hand. “You eat this, and I’ll help you with your boots.”

“Margot, you really don’t have to—”

Her brown eyes twinkled as she knelt down at my feet, her fingers already attacking my laces. “Of course I do,” she chided. “You’re family, and you’re injured. There’s no shame in needing a little bit of help, y’know.”

I gave her a crooked smile and pushed my foot out more, relinquishing the argument. I pulled off the cloth and began eating, using my lap as a table while Margot tugged on the laces. The fare was simple, but good. The best part was the little portion of canned peaches; while they would never compare to the real thing, they were a sweet treat, all things considered.