Chapter One

The sun dipped toward the western horizon, painting the sky in dozens of vibrant streaks of red and violet that Ivan couldn’t bring himself to appreciate. As beautiful as a sunset in Sector One could be, for the past two weeks, it had meant only one thing to him.

Ivan was going to have to be the bad guy. Again.

Maricela was still bent over a makeshift drafting table, her head close to Nita’s as they traced their fingers over the various floor plans and debated the practicalities of each one. Behind them, a grizzled contractor named Murphy shifted his nervous gaze between Maricela and Ivan. Maricela’s royal pleasure could make his career, but her bodyguard’s cold stare had kept him on edge.

That was fine. Ivan was used to keeping people on edge. He was used to a lot of things--instant respect and wariness wherever he went. Immediate deference. Swift obedience. He was a Rider, a personal representative of Gideon Rios himself. A warrior with a fierce reputation and the son of a revered saint. People prayed to his father. They hung portraits of him in their homes and tattooed his image on their skin.

Maricela was a princess, daughter of two saints, granddaughter of the Prophet. Her sister ran their grandfather’s religion. Her brother controlled all of Sector One. She didn’t like having a bodyguard--or a curfew. But it was Ivan’s duty to get her back to the estate before the sun set, and if that meant being the bad guy...

Well, Ivan had always performed his duty.

“I don’t know,” Maricela said. “Even if we build a loft space for the beds, we still don’t have room for a kitchen.”

“But they need one,” Nita insisted, smoothing her hand over the paper with a frown. “It’s so much cheaper to feed a family when you can cook your own meals.”

They continued studying the designs, both sporting equally fierce expressions of concentration. Behind them, the first of the retrofitted storage containers they’d reclaimed from Sector Two stood as a model of what could be.

Windows had been cut into the side to let in light. The heavy metal doors had been replaced with simple wooden ones. Inside, the contractor had done his best to transform cold steel into something welcoming--pine floors and adobe plaster walls, with a few pieces of furniture, bright, colorful curtains, and even vases of flowers staged to appeal to two idealistic young women.

The homes wouldn’t be fancy or spacious. But they’d be sturdy, easily constructed, and they’d keep out the bite of winter a whole lot better than the flimsy tents currently housing the hundreds of refugees still struggling to piece together a life after the war.

Ivan had lived in worse places.

But Maricela and Nita hadn’t. The two of them had grown up in palaces luxurious beyond what most people in the sectors could imagine. When they wanted food, it appeared. Discarded dirty clothing made its way back into their closets, clean and pressed, with little effort on their part.

Their intentions were beyond reproach. Their logistics, on the other hand...

Solving their dilemma would be the quickest way to get his charges moving, so Ivan stepped forward and pointed to the simplest floor plan, one that provided sleeping space, a sitting area, and a bathroom. “This is all you need,” he said, tapping the page. “For every five or so of these units, build a communal kitchen. For every ten, give them a communal space for laundry. A lot of the tenements are designed that way. People are used to sharing those spaces.”

“They shouldn’t have to share them. Surely we can come up with something better than a tenement.” Maricela’s brow furrowed for a moment, then relaxed as she sighed. “But probably not before winter.” She turned to Murphy. “Draw up some new plans incorporating Ivan’s suggestions. But I want each home built with future expansion in mind--come spring, we can add on to complete them.”

No, Maricela would never settle for anything less than perfect.

Relieved, Murphy bobbed his head in something that fell just short of a bow. “As you say, Miss Rios. I’ll have the final plans ready for you before the summer festival.”

“Good.” Nita started rolling the preliminary sketches. “My family’s hosting the solstice ball this year. We can convince all our rich relatives to open their pockets and contribute.”

“So at least one good thing will come of it,” Maricela murmured.

“That’s what I keep telling myself.” Nita offered the sketches to the contractor, who gave her another of those nervous almost-bows. The eldest Reyes daughter might not command the same deference as Maricela, but her family’s vast estates ensured crafters and merchants tripped over themselves to keep her happy.

She wasn’t going to like the curfew much either, but Ivan couldn’t afford to care. “If Murphy has everything he needs, it’s time for us to head back.”

Maricela didn’t even look at him. “Hardly. I have plenty more to do before I can go home.”

“We should look over the furniture...” Nita started, but her gaze drifted to Ivan. Even though her big brown eyes were deliberately innocent, he’d known her brother long enough to recognize that look--Reyes got that same tilt to his head and slight pursing of his lips when he was pondering whether a fight he was about to pick was hopeless.

Her brother usually threw himself into the fight either way. Nita was a lot smarter. “We can make most of those decisions at home. It is getting a little late.”

Maricela propped her hands on her hips. She drew in a deep breath, bracing for an argument, but all she said was, “Fine.”

It sure as hell wasn’t fine. Ivan would probably hear all about how not fine it was later. But Maricela was a Rios, and the Rios family maintained appearances in public.

Most days, Ivan counted on it.

A pointed look at the contractor convinced the man to keep his farewells quick. He bowed to each girl--actual bows this time--with promises and assurances spilling from him as he backed away.

That left Ivan to herd his charges toward the Jeep. Nita linked her arm through Maricela’s as Ivan trailed behind them. Once they were out of the shelter of the shipping containers, the warm summer wind stirred their hair and tugged at the edges of Maricela’s white dress. The hemline had grown dirty during an afternoon spent exploring the boundaries of the land set aside for refugee housing, and Ivan’s gaze caught on it between repeated scans of their surroundings.

Maricela could be at home, lounging by her pool or strolling through her gardens. She could be curled up next to the hearth in her suite with her favorite book. If she wanted to be productive, she could have joined the acolytes studying under Del at the temple and picked a craft--sewing, weaving, needlepoint, even art.

Those activities would have been safer, and most of them would have kept her white gowns pristine. But Maricela was a Rios, and a Rios wasn’t happy unless they were tromping around the sector, trying to save everyone.

He should know. Twenty-three years ago, her big brother had saved him.

He’d parked their vehicle in the middle of a clearing just off the main road. No opportunities for an enemy to conceal themselves nearby, and no way they could be lying in wait. But fifteen feet from the Jeep, Ivan spoke for the first time. “You two wait here for a second.”

Maricela made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a long-suffering sigh.

Ivan ignored her.

The Jeep looked undisturbed. There were no new footprints in the dirt surrounding it, no indication it had been tampered with. But Ivan still dropped to the ground and slid under it, taking his time to examine every spot where an enterprising assassin could have hidden a bomb.

Nothing.

Partially mollified, he rolled back to his knees and scanned the area again. Maricela looked impatient, Nita exasperated. The breeze brought scraps of their low-voiced conversation to him as he rose and opened the hood, enough to know they were still discussing whether the refugees could survive until spring without their own kitchens and laundry rooms.

Ivan knew the answer. For two bitter years, he’d lived with his mother in conditions that would horrify his perfectionist princess. The memories were blessedly hazy, but checking the engine for sabotage didn’t take enough concentration to distract from them. He could still remember the cold on the nights the temple shelters had been too full, or his mother had been too ashamed to seek one out. The nights they’d spent huddled together in a park or against the wall of a shop, as if they could soak up the heat through its surface.

Sector One was generous to a fault sometimes, but when people thought you had conspired to kill one of their princesses, doors tended to close in your face. His mother had seen a lot of closed doors before Gideon rescued them.

So Maricela could frown and sigh and roll her eyes all she wanted. Ivan was not taking chances with her safety.

He finished his inspection of the engine by checking the brake lines a second time, just to be sure. When he was convinced nothing had been tampered with, he slammed down the hood and raised his voice. “All right. Let’s go.”

“Maybe we should walk everywhere.” Maricela paused by the Jeep to brush some dirt from his shoulder, genuine affection curving her lips into a smile. “It would be faster, and you wouldn’t have to crawl around on the ground.”

Her absentminded touch tightened his skin, and her smile was a Sector One miracle all on its own. Maricela was always striking, with her light brown skin, bronzed by long hours under the summer sun, dark brown eyes, sharp, high cheekbones, and the elegant arch of her brows. She had a face meant to be carved into statues--and she would be. In generations to come, children would leave offerings at the feet of the beloved Santa Maricela and pray to her to heal all their hearts’ ills.

Children today didn’t have to pray. They just had to wait for her smile.

He couldn’t let her distract him, so he was gruffer than necessary when he opened the Jeep door for her. “I don’t mind.”

Shrugging, she climbed into the vehicle. “Suit yourself.”

Nita offered him a bright, beaming smile that reminded Ivan too much of the way her brother smiled when he wanted to charm some overawed young man or woman into blushing. “Thank you, Ivan,” she murmured in that husky voice that made all the newer guardsmen stupid.

Which was exactly why Ivan couldn’t trust the guardsmen around these two. They’d leap to obey Maricela’s slightest whim and fall over themselves trying to impress Nita, and probably not notice danger until it was pissing on their boots.

If then.

When both women were settled into the back seat, Ivan shut the door and circled to the driver’s door. He didn’t love the openness of the Jeep, or the fact that his passengers were out of his direct line of sight while he was driving. But a slight adjustment of the rearview mirror kept them visible, and the route he’d planned home was short and kept mostly to roads few people even knew existed.

Maricela was as safe as he could make her, but he’d still breathe easier once they were back within the well-patrolled walls of the Rios family estate. He could control the variables there. He could stay close to her. If worse came to worst, he could put himself bodily between her and danger.

His uncles might have been responsible for the death of a Rios princess, but before that, his father had taken a bullet to save one.

Ivan had been raised to emulate him.