Golden Son (Red Rising Saga 2)

Something strange twists inside me. Like a tight spring of emotion finally allowed to uncoil. “When I was on the bottom of the river … I knew I wouldn’t see you again.”

She hesitates, wanting to reach for me, but resisting because of all we’ve said before. “You know you don’t have my leave to die,” she jokes instead. “Anyway, Sevro and the Howlers would never forgive you if you tried. None of them would. You’ve so many friends, Darrow. So many who’d run through fire for you.”

So many who have been burned. Shuddering, I take a long breath and close my eyes, trying not to let the guilt swallow me. The tears come quietly, trickling out the corners of my eyes.

“Darrow. Don’t cry,” Mustang whispers, reaching for me now. She scoots closer, holding me. “It’s all right. It’s all over. We’re safe.”

The sobs come, racking my chest.

She’s wrong. It’s not over. All I see behind my eyelids is a world of war. There is no other future for me, for us. Yet how many times have I already been pieced back together? How much longer can all these stitches hold? In the end, will there even be pieces left of me? I can’t stop crying. Can’t even catch my breath. Heart thundering. Hands shaking. It all comes out of me. Mustang, barely half my weight, holds me with her gentle arms till I’m exhausted and can do nothing but sink back into the bed. In time, my heart slows, finding rhythm to match hers.

We sit that way for what must be an hour. Eventually, she kisses my shoulder, my neck, lips pausing along the jugular as it pulses. I move my hands to move her away, but she pushes them to the side and cups my face with a hand.

“Let me in.”

I let my hands fall to the bed. Her mouth crafts a warm path to mine. There we share the taste of my tears as her top lips slides between my own and her tongue warms the inside of my mouth. Her hand slides up my neck, nails grazing the skin, till she finds purchase in my hair, tugging slightly at the tangle. Shivers lance my body.

Gone is any semblance of resistance. All the guilt that kept me from betraying Eo with Mustang is swept away in the chaos inside me. All the guilt I have for knowing she is a Gold and I am a Red vanishes. I’m a man, and she’s the woman I want.

My hands find Mustang, pulling her body onto mine, shadowing the length of her legs to the swell of her waist. Long-suppressed hunger wakes in me. Filling me with heat, aching for her. All of her. Forget my restraint. Forget my sadness. This is all I need. I won’t run. Not this time. Not when I know how close I came to never seeing her again.

I peel apart her clothing with slow force. Under my hands, the fabric is like wet paper. Her skin is smooth, hot marble warmed in the sun. Muscles coil and tense underneath as she arches her back. Hers is a body made for movement, mocking, coiling around mine. I trace my fingers along the curve of her lower back. She pushes into me, pulsing with breath, hips grinding me into the bed.

It may have been a week to her, but for me it was minutes, seconds ago that I kneeled against cold steel warmed by my own blood, waiting for men to cut off my head. This a moment I thought I would never have again as I dug Eo’s grave with my own trembling hands. A moment with a woman I want and love. And what is the bloodydamn point of surviving in this cold world if I run from the only warmth it has to offer?

44

The Poet

I walk slowly down the stone hall with Mustang. Out the windows, guards patrol the estate. They’re here to keep us as much as protect us. Rain falls lightly. Laughter drifts out an open door with the smells of coffee and bacon.

“What do you mean I can’t be funny?” Roque asks, offended.

“Just that,” Daxo says smoothly. “I’m sure you can try, but you’re too … scholastic.”

“Fine then, who was the first carpenter?”

“Is this a joke?” Daxo asks.

“It’s intended to be.”

“Jesus of Nazareth …?” Daxo guesses. “It is a history joke, yes?”

“Noah?” Pebble tries. Mustang and I pause outside the door, smiling to one another.

“Jesus of Nazareth?” Roque laughs. “You can do better than that.”

“If I knew I’d be mocked for guessing, I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Pax said you were the smart one,” Thistle says. “Disappointing, Daxo. Disappointing.”

“Well, in comparison, he probably—” Clown begins. “Ow!”

“Don’t talk shit about Pax,” Pebble snaps. “Big man was a sweetie.”

“Does no one care about the answer?” Roque asks melodically. “Fine. Fine. I understand. You all think I’m a bore.”

“We’re dying to know,” Thistle snaps. “Do tell.”