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“Lord Larsen is norival, just a fossil rotting in entitlement, and his days are numbered. As for the Omega, I first met her long before yesterday.”
She frowns. “Did you?”
I don’t bother to reply, but my hand lifts to my arm, and I nearly groan in frustration when it encounters Kevlar instead of warm skin. For the first time in my life, I resent my armor. I want to trace the scar she left on my arm. The place where she marked me long before I knew who she was or what she would grow to become. Kuznetzov’s daughter, too.
Fuck. She was there all along, wasn’t she?
“It’s unexpected,” I admit.
“What is?”
“Her.” I take a deep breath. Look straight ahead. “I’m going to speak to the generals, and then I’ll make sure everything is in place and that there’s nothing Lord Larsen can do without me finding out. I have a different job for you.”
“Which would be?”
“I need you to make sure Lennart is kept busy elsewhere for the rest of the day. I don’t care what you have to do. Cut his Achilles tendons if you need to.”
“With pleasure. And after that?”
I feel myself smile. “I’m not giving her back, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“For how long?”
Forever. That’s the only possible answer. But I can’t tell that to Martia, because even I know how deranged it sounds. “For however fucking long I want her.”
“Gabe, it’s… You might not have a choice.”
“Ialwayshave a choice.”
Martia sighs. But then she asks, “Her scent changed. You noticed it, too, right?”
After a beat, I nod.
“It’s so much stronger than even last night. I’ve never seen anything like it. There is somethingverywrong here.” Her throat works. “Think Lennart Larsen is cut from the same cloth as his father?”
I consider the matter. A wave of anger courses through me, but I stave it off. I can be patient, at least for short periods. By the end of the week at the latest, I’m going to give Lord Larsen and his son exactly what they deserve.
“For Lennart’s own sake,” I say, “I really hope he isn’t.”
Chapter15
THE GARDEN
Sofia
That afternoon brings a partial Low, one not predicted by the tide watchers. It’s something most people in the stronghold barely notice, as the water falls only enough to free the last five or six floors of the stronghold, and it probably won’t last longer than ten hours. Still, it’s a perfect opportunity for the engineers to take care of some repairs that need to be tackled from the outside.
Gabriel is gone, and from an overheard conversation between Ivar and Bastian, I gather that he’s busy with important and probably supersecret meetings. Nearly all the soldiers are focusing on the maintenance work. That leaves me free to roam the military area, which is in the southern wing of the third level from the top. A Beta guard trails after me, keeping an eye on me from a few feet away. I wonder whether she’s here for my safety, to prevent my escape, or to protect others in case I become deranged, but there are so few people wandering around the corridors, the second option must be the correct one.
It’s for the best because I am developing the mother of all headaches. It must have to do with this new environment, the constant stimulation, the stressful last few days. The military wing is large, and I love studying its severe architecture and cataloguing the myriad of ways in which it differs from House Larsen’s lavishness.
Yet here the smells feel almost too intense. The other Omegas I pass are cloying. The Alphas, aggressive and overbearing. Paradoxically, the only place where I’m at peace is Gabriel’s room, where his scent dominates and rises above any other. But when I peek in there, Alex is stretched on a sunbeam. Given the heft of her glare, I decide to find another location to spend the afternoon.
My guard recommends a beautiful artificial garden. It’s at the corner of the wing, in an area that can be accessed by everyone in the stronghold. It has more windows than I can count, and I cannot stop thinking that if such a place belonged to Lord Larsen, he would have appropriated it and restricted the access to himself and his family. Clearly, Gabriel believes in communal spaces and wants everyone to experience real sunlight. The kind of principles you develop when you weren’t raised on the fiftieth floor, I guess.
I spend hours here. I circle the beautiful plants that look like pictures in the old books Dad used to read to me, studying the shapes of the leaves, marveling at the brightness of the flowers. I am, for the most part, on my own, which should be freeing but has me feeling oddly bereft, as though I have misplaced a limb or something equally necessary. Toward the end of the afternoon, though, a redheaded child who cannot be older than four comes barreling down one of the pathways, then stops right in front of me with a quizzical expression.
As much as I adore children, I don’t have much experience with them. I’ve treated some, mostly kids of military members, but when their parents take them to me, it’s usually for urgent medical issues, and they tend to be scared out of their minds. To put them at ease, I’ve learned a single trick that never fails to dazzle: pulling an object from behind their ear.
