“Wait,” I pant, exhaling his horrid breath from my mouth and inhaling clean air to replace it.

“Okay!” He huffs. “I’ll cut it off first.”

“Cut into the fat, too,” the words spit out, “make sure it’s all gone. Then put it down the drain.”

“You’re a wild girl.”

I sob. “Then we can be free.”

“I am free.”

My hands shake. “We can be free together.”

This might keep me alive, might make him defend me against the others, might… give me time.

Or that piece of me might float down the drain. I don’t know what I’m doing. I grab my forearm, displaying the tattoo, twist my head away, and close my eyes.

A cold blade presses in and slides under my skin, curling the flesh and fat from my muscles, burning a trail so intense it sends violent noises up my throat.

I try to keep quiet, but it hurts, and a real groan crawls along my tongue before I can stop it.

I quickly mutter, “I’m sorry.”

But it is too late.

“Wait. What the fuck?” One of the men is awake, but we are still hidden in the shadows of the large room. “Where is she, you damn fool!”

On a mission, I grab the slice of flesh, perfectly removed—a strip branded by The Trade—and move to the drain. I squat, shoving it between the grates. It disappears under the building and out of sight.

Fat is less dense than water… It might float. It has to float. Float all the way to the dam or irrigate yards that are managed by Trade men. They will see the sigil; they’ll alert someone. It is a wildly arbitrary plan, but it is all I have.

I look down at my wrist, a shiny strip missing, the raw, bloody flesh screaming in the exposed air. My head spins. I lose my fight against the nausea. It swoops in, my muscles loosen, knees buckle, and I drop straight to the floor.

“Your tongue can’t be trusted, little girl. Let’s take it off for you. It gets you in so much trouble.”

His threat rattles between my ears moments before a black silence swallows my world.

OceanofPDF.com

Chapter Five

Rome

Odio screeches above me.

Blood mists the air. On my right shoulder, orange first-light filters through the dark skies.

I stride across the dry range littered with twitching bodies, using my steel-capped boot to push them from my path.

My hood flaps in the wind.

Arid, hot air cuts across the sea from the north, carrying the scent of death, decay, and victory. Air that travelled The Strait, picking up the sharp notes of fish and boat oil. The invaders made it to the shore at Breaker Ledge, such a remarkable feat. They should be proud.

Only to be killed on the desert sand.

Holding my automatic rifle, I stride up the hill wanting the epic view of carnage. My thigh muscles burn, my lungs rattle. It’s been a long night.

“Spare me,” a weak voice says, and I stop halfway up the rock. The tip of my boot dusts the side of a Common man’s face. Eyes wide with terror, blood flowing like a fountain around a bullet in his throat, but still very much alive.

I hover, giving him a final breath before I step onto his head, popping his skull against the hard red crust of The Cradle. “Meaningful Purpose starts in the womb.”

I reach the top of the desert plateau, the wind threatening me, but I am too fucking big to be swept over. To be thrown backward. To be controlled.

I look out over the desert range, through the sand-mixed gale, and distinguish the grey shapes that represent bodies. Hundreds of them. And further in the distance, their cargo ship wedged on the shore, cutting the red sand open. Everything is red in the waste.

Moments ago, screams of pain, automatic rifles running and rattling, and wails for aid pierced the atmosphere. A continuous thunderstorm of chaotic noise.

Now, silence rides the wind.

Only the phantom of war stirs.

“You’re wounded, Sire.”

I touch my shoulder, feed my fingers through the leathers to a warm, wet spot and poke it. I barely feel the bullet hole, not above all the other senses sparking with action.

I smile coldly. Perhaps, I’ll leave it there. Like my father did, claiming all the silvery lead inside his body like trophies for his tissue.

“I am fine.”

“But it may fest⁠—”

He stops midsentence when I turn to face him. Him—a random member of my Guard wearing a full mask to help him breathe through the gale. The sand would fill his lungs like an hourglass.

Staring directly at him, I breathe deep, the thin films of skin in my nostrils vibrating, filtering the sand and air. I was designed for this world. “Did you speak?”

“My apologies, Sire. I only wish to serve you.” He salutes me, and ducks away with his rifle clutched to his chest.

Alone again, I take another moment but feel the presence of an old friend quickly approaching.

Odio’s wings flick sand and debris around us, further clouding the atmosphere. His talons hit the red crust, and his left wing touches my thigh. A greeting.

Giant creature.

His beak drips with blood, slithers of flesh dangling, slapping his face in the wind.

“Beautiful,” I say to him.

“You’ll need that seen to, boy.”

Kong.

My brows pinch.

At least my Guardian respects me enough to only call me boy when we are alone, though, I do not care for it under any circumstances. “Did we lose many to these rogues from Ruins H?”

“A few,” Kong answers, staring at my back, his gaze tangible. “They will keep coming. They are starving up there.”

“And I will keep killing them.”

He faces the wind, staring out over the desert face. “I know your father kept his bullets inside, but your father was⁠—"

“The king,” I utter, but the message is clear.

“Yes.” I hear his frustrated sigh even through the whipping wind and the sound of Odio aggressively plucking at his feathers, cleaning the blood from his majestic onyx coat.

“I care to travel to The Estate alone,” I say, striding back down the rock, not wanting to continue this conversation given the direction I know it is going.

“Before you were born, your father nearly ran out of time!” He spits out, and I anticipated he wasn’t fucking finished. “He waited too long. Focused on the war. Fucked the House Girls. Lost two heirs before you! He eventually stayed in The Estate and focused on his Collective and his legacy. And he made heirs.” He chuckles, but it’s mirthless. “You refuse to wear a protective mask. You refuse a Guard circle. You want to walk around, a great ominous force, and see them tremble and drop, but you don’t have a damn legacy, Rome! Dammit, boy. I am here to help you!”

I spin to face him. “Then help me.”

“Cairo came to me, Rome,” he states, hesitant, and I frown. “He’s tired of waiting, too. I didn’t like it when he came to me, but he’s right.”

Is he tired? Is he here?

Fucking, Cairo.

“Is now really the time?” I sweep my arms wide, the bloodshed surrounding me, the whispers of final breaths still coasting the Redwind. My wind. My shore. The final breaths still plead with my name.

“While you’re bleeding two inches from your heart?” he punches out. “Yes! I’d say now is the time, unless you want Tuscany in danger when you die. You must give your pairing heirs. You will do this for her, and, dammit, you will do this for me, Rome!”

He rarely speaks of my sister so when he does the intent holds weight. I don’t speak of my sister either; she is a wound that never closed. But his affections for her have never been quiet, though never uttered aloud. They need not be. They are in his every motivation. Drive his every action.