The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)

Owen’s face was partially hidden in shadows cast by the dim ensconced lights on the wall of Ashabee’s secret armory. This basement had stronger lighting, but neither of us had stopped to flip the switch. Then again, considering that Owen had just sold me out to Desmond, nationalist psychopath and Queen Elena’s right-hand woman, neither of us had spared much thought for the lighting. Even if he had just pretended to sell me out, if I were to believe what he was saying.

I wanted to believe him. He was my best friend, and some unshakable part of me refused to believe he would truly throw me to the wolves like that. We’d been through so much together. And the hatred in his voice when he spoke of Desmond had been so clear.

My heart’s desperate urge to believe Owen would never really betray me wasn’t making things easier or less confusing. If anything, it was making this whole thing worse—and I didn’t have time to be confused. I shook my head, at a loss for words, raging that, despite everything, I couldn’t bring myself to just shoot him in the leg and leave him there to rot while trying to make my own escape.

Nothing could make up for the fact that I’d been hoping to find my brother and instead I’d found her waiting for me. Or for him dragging me out here on false pretenses and lying to my face about it. Since I couldn’t figure out how to feel about anything, my brain settled on anger. I was furious.

As I continued to not speak, Owen’s eyes bored into mine. In the soft light, I could see he was trying to look reassuring, but his desperation made the idea nonsensical. “Violet, please, we can stop her,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right. We’ve got her now. She believes me. We can put an end to all this.”

From up the stairs came the sound of banging. Like it or not, I was stuck with Owen right now. I needed him to help me escape, and moreover, if he was trying to double-cross—double double-cross?—me once more, I needed to at least play along until I could escape him, too.

“What’s your plan?” I bit out.

Owen looked feverishly into my eyes. “Desmond is up there right now. We have a bit of a scuffle, shout at each other, and then I bring you upstairs—I’ll go for Desmond, you go for the guards… No, you can shoot her, if you—”

“Do you even hear yourself?” I recoiled, trying to keep my voice low while taking a horrified step away from him. The fear lurking in my stomach raised its ugly head again, but I pushed it down into the river of anger roaring up my insides. I felt like the whole room was spinning around me. “Killing Desmond isn’t some kind of prize that’s going to make everything better!”

Owen’s blue eyes burned even in the dim light as he held my gaze; then he looked away, pain clenching his face. He opened his mouth as if to reply.

The pounding at the door above us stopped momentarily, just long enough for me to wonder if they’d pulled back—and then a honey-sweet voice called out through the door, clearly audible, making my stomach crawl. “Do hurry up, Owen dear,” it said. “Every second you spend down there makes me doubt your intentions.”

Desmond was there at the top of the stairs right now. And she suspected. Oh, of course she suspected.

Owen shot me a glance and then turned in her direction.

“Say something!” I hissed at him. “Fix this!”

“No! I was pretending you shot me, remember?” he whispered back. My eyes narrowed at the back of his head, suddenly wishing I had free use of both hands so I could slap this stupid idea out of his head. I had use of my left, but the slap that this level of delirious stupidity deserved was one I wasn’t currently capable of delivering. “Then how are you supposed to open the door without blowing your cover? Do you want me to really shoot you as a cover?”

“No, I don’t know! I—I—” Finally, he was flustered. “I imagined it going differently than this, okay?”

“You—”

This time, Owen didn’t let me finish the angry remark on my tongue. “I needed this all to be over!” he said. “I’m tired of everybody around me getting hurt! I’m tired of this war, I’m tired of everything falling apart and going wrong, and without Ian, I have nothing to look forward to anymore. It’s all so out of control and wrong, and it’s all Desmond’s fault. We can stop it. We can stop it right now. All we need to do is kill her.”

“Do you really think that is going to solve everything?” I snapped, my voice getting louder. A moment later, I caught myself, my hand fluttering to my mouth, but there was still a loud banging coming from the door.

Owen sighed. “No,” he said in the smallest breath imaginable. “But it felt so right.”

I sucked in a deep breath, trying not to let my imagination drift into dark places... scenarios where Desmond kidnapped me… and… I shut my eyes and tried to filter all the thoughts out. Those thoughts would get me nowhere, and neither would this argument. I tried to clear my head.

The banging stopped for a moment as Desmond’s voice spoke to us again.

“Owen, I very much hope you are truly injured, because that will make the rest of this much easier for you. Cease this charade. My guards and I are growing impatient—bring her up here, or neither of you will like the result.”

Owen turned to me, his blue eyes imploring, and whispered desperately, “Okay, new idea. We pretend to surrender, then…”

My fingers on my right hand twitched in response, trying to form a fist in spite of the cast preventing it. “She shoots us both. First me, then you.”

Owen glared at me, but he didn’t answer. I pushed on. “I’m not going up those stairs, Owen. It’s too dangerous. I’m going out of Ashabee’s tunnel while they’re distracted. If you try to stop me, I’ll… I’ll… Please don’t try to stop me.”

I didn’t want to say what I would do, but I didn’t have to. From the barren look on Owen’s face, I knew he understood. His stupid plan was going to fail. He would have to drag me back to Desmond kicking and screaming. My teeth were clenched and my right hand’s fingers dug into the cast. If he tried to persist—if he really did want to sell me out to Desmond—this would be the hardest moment of my life.

Up above us, the pounding on the door had resumed, and it sounded less like random pounding now and more like deliberate use of force. I winced at the sound of splintering and scraping. The more time we spent here, the less time I had to escape.

“Come with me,” I pleaded, begging him not to fight me over this. “We’ll find some other way to kill Desmond. We’ll fix things.”

Instead of trying to fight me, Owen did the only thing that might have been worse: he turned back toward the basement door and pulled out his gun.

“You were right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. Get out of here while you still can, Violet.”

I had already taken a few steps back before the gravity of that statement fully registered. “You don’t really think you can take them all down by yourself—”