Chapter Twenty

Ivan’s emotions were still roiling when Ana arrived to let him know Kora was waiting for him in Gideon’s office.

He wasn’t in any condition to face his leader. He could still taste Maricela on his lips, and it didn’t even feel like blasphemy anymore. It felt necessary, like she’d taken her place alongside all the other things he needed. Air. Water. Food.

Maricela.

But a Rider didn’t disobey a summons. He walked into Gideon’s office and found both Gideon and Kora seated at the round table in front of one of the huge windows overlooking the orchard. Bright sunlight filtered through the panes, gilding Kora’s golden hair and catching the colored glass of the huge chandelier above them.

“Sit,” Gideon said by way of greeting, nudging a third chair back from the table. When Ivan obeyed, Gideon tilted his head. “Kora?”

She opened the thin white folder sitting in front of her. “You didn’t kill Javier Montero.”

Ivan wasn’t prepared for the relief that washed over him. Though he’d never enjoyed death, he’d never regretted a life he’d been forced to take, either. But the people he killed were usually scum--killers and bullies, those who preyed on the weak.

Javier Montero had been an asshole, but asshole was a far cry from evil. “Do you know what did?”

She nodded, her expression grave. “He had an astronomical amount of alcohol in his bloodstream. The highest level I’ve ever seen, well into lethal range. My first thought was that someone forced him to drink it--poisoned him, essentially. But then I remembered what Gabe said...” She glanced at Gideon uncertainly.

Gideon inclined his head. “The Riders should know.”

“Right. I remembered that he said Javier could drink anyone under the table. So I checked his liver enzymes.” She took a deep breath. “Javier was an alcoholic. The night of the ball, he drank himself to death.”

Ivan had been prepared for poison, for an enemy. No, not just any enemy. In those dark places he couldn’t even acknowledge, he’d been waiting for it to be Lucas, the Prophet’s lost heir. His ultimate proof that bad blood always won out, that betrayal was hereditary.

Maybe it really wasn’t.

“There’s something else,” Gideon said quietly. “I know you’ve heard the rumors by now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gideon’s expression turned sympathetic. “If I could wave my hand and make them go away, I would. But this...is not the sort of thing you announce. It’s a private matter of grief for the Monteros, and even if I did make it public...”

He didn’t have to finish. None of the devout would dare defy Gideon to his face, but unthinking devotion left ample room for quiet hypocrisy. People had always found ways to justify their mistreatment of Ivan’s mother. If they wanted to believe in Ivan’s guilt, they’d rationalize it somehow.

Ivan didn’t care, as long as Gideon still believed in him.

And Maricela.

Her words came back to him. Those tempting, beautiful, terrifying words. They’re going to make you a saint. She’d sparked a reckless hope in him, one he’d done his best to quell before it grew so strong that the disappointment of having it dashed would crush him.

Because there weren’t any plans in place to make him a saint. There couldn’t be. The final battle had been a chaotic nightmare. In its aftermath, Mad had been busy with his O’Kane family in Sector Four. He might not even remember that moment, one near miss among dozens. He certainly hadn’t announced it to Gideon.

And Ivan hadn’t told anyone, not until Maricela.

What was he supposed to do now, nine months after the fact? Blurt it out? Brag? It would sound like he was grasping for something flattering to counter the rumors. Like he was seeking glory.

“Ivan?” Gideon’s brow furrowed with concern. “Is there something you need to say?”

Of course he knew. The hair on the back of Ivan’s neck stirred as Gideon’s gaze focused on him, intense and knowing and maybe just a touch otherworldly.

The thought of Gideon seeing deep enough into his soul to find Maricela there was so terrifying that Ivan blurted out the truth. “I saved Mad. During the battle inside Eden. I saved his life.”

Something very close to surprise flashed across Gideon’s face before he schooled his expression. “Really? Ivan, why didn’t you--?”

“It was nothing,” Ivan interrupted, already self-conscious. “It was just my job. I knocked him out of the way of a bullet and didn’t even get a scratch. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it, but Maricela found out. And now she thinks... She thinks I’m going to be...” He couldn’t say the word, but it hung there between them, so loud it filled the room.

Sainted.

“I understand.” Gideon reached out to squeeze Ivan’s shoulder. “She’s fond of you, and she wants to see you honored. And you will be. Del and Isabela are already planning the memorial to mark the one-year anniversary of the final battle. Let them recognize you. For Maricela, if nothing else.”

It wasn’t a promise of sainthood. Ivan hadn’t really expected one, but disappointment still pricked. How convenient it would have been to tie everything neatly up in a bow. Pre-sainted, already saved from damnation.

Good enough for her.

Gideon was rising from the table. “If that’s all...?”

For Maricela. On a whim, Ivan turned to Kora. “I need to talk to you, too. About a medical issue.”

“Of course.” Kora flipped the folder shut and addressed Gideon. “Medical matters are private. You’ll have to leave.”

He arched one brow at her. “You’re kicking me out of my office?”

“Yes, I am.”

He heaved a sigh. “Sisters are an eternal delight and an eternal irritation. Come find me in the courtyard when you’re done, Kora.”

When he closed the door firmly behind him, Kora turned to Ivan. “Now, what’s going on?”

The moment the words were out of her mouth, Ivan regretted speaking up. His tongue felt heavy. Frozen. He’d gotten so used to talking to Maricela that he’d forgotten there was some magic in her that made it easy.

But he had to find a way to get this out. He had to know. The darkness inside him that whispered of bad blood and told him he deserved every scrap of pain and discomfort that came his way had been a part of him for so long, he’d assumed it was all there was to living. The numbness. The hopelessness.

The fantasies of dying as a martyr so he could live on as a saint.

It had never seemed to matter before. As long as the broken pieces fit together well enough for him to do his job, Ivan hadn’t cared why he was broken. Why poke at all those painful memories when pain was only a distraction? It wasn’t worth fighting through it when he could take a bullet tomorrow. Damned men didn’t need fixing.

But men who wanted to live, who wanted to love...

“What my mother has,” he said abruptly. “Could I have it, too?”

“Depression?” Kora asked gently. “It’s possible. But if this is about the war, you should know that post-traumatic stress isn’t uncommon.”

“I don’t know what it is,” he ground out. “It’s always been there. It just never mattered, because I could still do my job. Not caring if I lived or died made me even better at it.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she murmured. “At least, I hope it’s not.”

The sympathy in her eyes scraped his raw nerves. He felt exposed. This wasn’t something he knew how to fight. He needed the cool, familiar steel of a blade in his hand and a tangible enemy. Not feelings.

He clenched his fists on the table as panic nearly choked him. “This is stupid. I should go.”

“Wait.” Kora laid her hand on one of his clenched fists. “If you’re worried that your mother’s depression is hereditary, we can run the tests. There’s no harm in it, and no shame. If you were concerned enough to ask, then we should.” She tilted her head, met his eyes, and echoed Gideon’s words. “For Maricela, if nothing else.”

Ivan went utterly still.

It was easy to forget that the same genetic experimentation that had produced Ashwin’s terrifyingly adept military mind had also produced Kora, except that she’d been designed for empathy and healing. Ivan studied her sweet, heart-shaped face. Her blue, blue eyes. There was an understanding there that went deeper than her words. An understanding that dared him to deny the truth.

“You know,” he said flatly.

“About Maricela’s feelings, yes,” she admitted. “She doesn’t hide them, does she? But I didn’t realize they were mutual until the night of the ball, when we were all getting ready in Nita’s suite.”

Before they’d given in. Before he’d taken Maricela to bed and learned all the sounds she could make when he stroked her just right. Before he’d become so enamored, he’d started to wonder impossible things, like whether he could make himself into a man worthy of a princess.

How much more obvious must it be now? “Does Gideon know?”

Kora smiled. “Trust me, there are some things Gideon couldn’t imagine, even if he tried. His baby sister, all grown up and in love, tops the list.”

Gideon, fallible. Another sacrilegious idea to add to the list. He was getting rather good at ignoring blasphemy. Ivan swallowed hard and closed his eyes. “She sees something in me that I never saw. Something good. And she makes me think...” That he wanted to live. That he could be the sort of person who had something to live for. “Maybe I’m worth fixing.”

“Ivan, you--” Kora bit off the words. “I understand. We can run the tests, and then you’ll know. But, Ivan...”

“Yeah?”

She waited until he opened his eyes to continue. “What if you don’t get the answer you want? What then?”

He wanted to protest that he wasn’t looking for any one answer, but Kora would see through the lie.

The fantasy had already formed inside him. Kora would run her tests and tell him that everything dark and hard and wrong in his life had been a chemical mistake, and then she’d give him one of those implants and he’d be different. Good enough.

Fixed.

He was grasping for miracles again. For sainthood, for a medical cure. For anything that might wipe away his past and offer him a brighter future on a silver platter.

Ivan had to be braver than that. He clenched his hands and forced out the words. “Then we talk about post-traumatic stress, or whatever else you think I should talk about.”

“All right.” She smiled again, the expression as gently encouraging as everything else about her. “I can take the blood samples I need to get started now. If you want.”

For Maricela. He’d used the words as a talisman and a token, but if he wanted to be the man she saw, the good man, this couldn’t just be about her. He could lean on her courage, her faith and hope, but if he was going to face down his past and his legacy and his traitorous blood, he had to do it for himself.

He didn’t have to be a saint to be worthy of happiness.