Chapter Seven

After a late night of wine, dancing, and frantic gossip, most of Estela Reyes’s guests were crashing in their borrowed beds.

The Riders didn’t have time for that.

As the hallways quieted and servants finished attending to last-minute needs, Gideon assembled his people in the generous suite he’d been provided. Kora and Maricela were next door in Isabela’s suite, waiting under Bishop’s watchful eye, but Ivan was anxious to return to her side.

He was just anxious in general.

Laurel tagged along to the meeting with Ana, and Gideon’s nod of welcome all but confirmed his plans to woo the sniper from Sector Three into the ranks of the Riders. Ivan still wasn’t sure that was wise. He liked Laurel, but she reminded him of a skittish, wild creature. She seemed easygoing and confident on the surface--especially when she was verbally sparring with Zeke or poking at Gabe--but she got a look in her eyes sometimes. A well-hidden but undeniable panic, as if the walls were closing in and she was searching for the closest exit so she could disappear and never return.

Ivan didn’t trust Laurel to stick around if shit got too weird for her. But he trusted her to have their backs while she was here, so he settled into a seat with a strong cup of coffee and braced himself to have the darkest parts of his childhood torn open.

“So.” Reyes brushed his hair out of his eyes. “The lost heir of the Prophet’s bastard son. This should be fun.”

Zeke made a rude noise. “Only the really out-there conspiracy theory nuts in Eden bought into this one. I can’t believe it’s fucking true.”

“It looks like it could be,” Gideon said reluctantly. “His resemblance to my grandfather in his youth is uncanny. Kora says it’s possible cosmetic surgery could have replicated the features, but a simple DNA test will reveal the truth either way, and that would be nearly impossible to fool.”

“Nearly,” Ashwin interjected. “The Base has experimented with retroactively altering DNA, but their only successes have been at a microscopic level. Nothing sophisticated enough to counterfeit a familial connection.”

“It would be risky for an impostor to make such a public claim.” Lucio didn’t move from his spot by the window, and he gazed out over the lawn below as he spoke. “Then again, potentially being exiled from One might be worth the gamble.”

Deacon gestured toward Gabe. “Your uncle brought him. What did he have to say about it?”

Gabe’s eyebrows drew together in a stormy frown. “Uncle Antonio wasn’t very forthcoming. He’s never been shy about asking me for favors, but now suddenly this is family business, and I’m not technically family anymore.”

Hunter scoffed. “Come on. You didn’t let him get away with that, did you?”

“Of course not. I made it clear he could explain the situation to me or directly to Gideon. But he still just spewed a lot of shit about forgiveness and grace and how if Gideon wanted to hold the sins of the family against the next generation, then he never should have--” Gabe cut off abruptly, but his gaze slid to Ivan.

There it was.

“Then he never should have let me become a Rider,” Ivan said as evenly as he could manage.

“That’s a load of shit,” Reyes growled.

“Oh, fuck,” Zeke exclaimed suddenly, sitting upright. His wide eyes locked on to Ivan, and the expression there was familiar and demoralizing. “I mean, I learned about the bastard heir and the civil war and everything, and I guess I knew your uncles were involved, I just never...”

“Zeke,” Deacon snapped.

Laurel, who had been surveying them all with silent interest, cleared her throat and raised her hand. “A little background here? For the new kid?”

Half the Riders looked at him. The rest looked at Gideon. Ana was the one who cleared her throat. “About twenty-five years ago, some people decided they didn’t agree with the way the Prophet was running things, so they found a convenient figurehead. The grown son of one of the Prophet’s mistresses.”

“He had plenty of choose from, I assume.” Laurel glanced at Gideon. “No offense.”

Gideon lifted one shoulder. “The idea of group marriages had become popular by that point, but my grandmother drew a firm line. The Prophet had many consorts, but only one wife. I expect Abuela Ana is the reason our inheritance traditions are so rigidly defined. She had no intention of seeing her children usurped by the many, many offspring her husband fathered in his later years.”

“Which is logically inconsistent,” Ashwin said, his brow furrowing. “If any specific divinity could be inherited, all of his children should have equal claim to it.”

Reyes barked out a laugh and batted his eyelashes at him. “You’re so cute when you’re being stupid.”

Ashwin glowered at him.

“Don’t start, you two.” Zeke leaned forward, grabbed an entire tray of pastries--probably meant for the next morning’s breakfast--and dragged it towards him. “It’s too late to be punching each other.”

“You’re straying off topic,” Ana chided them, then turned back to Laurel. “Anyway, there was a civil war. Fighting, on and off, for years. But it started when the main agitators kidnapped Gideon’s cousin and his aunt.”

Laurel absently reached for one of the pastries and drew back her hand when Zeke smacked it. “You mean Mad and his mother.”

“Yeah.” Ana glanced at Ivan, her gaze almost apologetic. He inclined his head to give her permission to say the worst of it.

At least then he wouldn’t have to do it.

“It got bad,” Ana said softly. “They made a ransom demand, and the Prophet refused to negotiate. He said he’d had a vision, that he was being tested. So they sent him his daughter’s finger.”

A horrifying detail, but still so sanitized. Ana probably didn’t know how it had really gone down. Ivan did. When he’d been old enough to understand, he’d made Mad tell him all of it. How they’d held Mad and his mother in a dark room, shut away from light and food and water. How they’d come into that stinking cellar with a gun, but couldn’t bring themselves to point it at Santa Adriana, the beloved princess of Sector One. They certainly couldn’t bring themselves to cut her. So they’d ground the barrel of the gun into Mad’s temple and ordered him to cut off his mother’s finger.

And, in a dull voice numb with trauma, Mad had told Ivan how his mother had begged him to do it, so desperate to save her son’s life that, in the end, she gave up her own.

Ivan’s family had done that to him. His Uncle Scott had bounced Ivan on his knee and let him steal the bacon from his plate, and then he’d gone to a shitty, dank basement, wrapped his fingers around a pistol, and shoved it against the temple of a thirteen-year-old boy, forcing him to take a knife to his own mother.

No wonder Ivan’s mother had gone a little crazy. Finding out that the people you loved were capable of evil left wounds that never healed.

Ana was still talking, her voice too warm and bright for the story she was telling. “...eventually they got Mad out, but both of his parents died. That’s when the war broke out in earnest. The bastard heir had a pregnant wife, but she disappeared in all the chaos, and then he died pretty dramatically.”

“But the war never really did,” Gideon added. “I formed the Riders officially five years after the kidnapping, and it took us another eight to bring the sector back to order. A lot of people died on both sides. I guess I always figured that if Teresa had gotten out, there was no way she’d risk coming back.”

“To be fair, it seems she hasn’t.” Lucio finally turned toward them all, his arms crossed over his chest. “The question is, why did her son? Is he looking to reconnect with his roots, meet his cousins? Or are his intentions more...revolutionary?”

Ivan almost held his tongue. Shame still burned in his gut, and he wanted nothing more than to escape this conversation. But he had a job--a duty--one that mattered more than personal comfort. “I think his intentions are obvious. He went straight for Maricela.”

“Assuming he’s being honest about his identity, she is his cousin,” Hunter said mildly. “And less intimidating than Gideon or Isabela.”

And more useful as a kidnapping victim. If someone snatched Maricela, Gideon and Isabela wouldn’t make up some shit about being tested. They’d sacrifice whatever was necessary to get her back.

He didn’t say it out loud. Gideon was already giving him that look, the one that peeled away all the walls you tried to hide behind and saw into the darkest corners of your heart.

Lucas was the son of tragedy, just like Ivan. He hadn’t even been born when the events that had defined both of their lives had transpired. The people who loved Ivan would be horrified to know how quickly he condemned Lucas for the sins of his father, because then they’d know the truth.

Ivan had condemned himself a long, long time ago.

“Lucas isn’t responsible for what his father did,” Gideon said slowly, his gaze never leaving Ivan’s face. “I won’t damn him for someone else’s crimes. But Teresa was in the thick of the rebellion, and we don’t know what he grew up hearing about us. So caution seems wise. Zeke?”

“On it,” Zeke said around a mouthful of donut. He reached into a bag at his feet and pulled out a sleek tablet that unfolded on the table into a wide square. “Check this out. I got the new prototype out of Eden. The best thing about the war being over is that innovation is booming.”

He swiped a hand over the edge of the tablet, and a holographic display appeared above it. “Sweet, right? I’ll get my group on it, tracking down any whispers. I might even be able to sweet-talk Penny into running some facial recognition scans inside Eden. See if he’s been around for a while and what he’s been doing.”

“Good. Ashwin? Do you know anyone in the mountain communes?”

“I don’t. But I know a Makhai soldier who’s cultivated an extensive network of contacts there. I can ask for a favor.” He hesitated. “The Makhai don’t take favors lightly. Indebting myself to him will mean he can call on us for assistance later.”

“That’s fine,” Gideon said. “We need all the information we can get.”

“What do we do about the kid in the meantime?” Deacon asked.

“We watch him. Feel him out. I’ll let Isabela take the first run at him. Most people aren’t prepared for how devious she can be.” Gideon sipped his coffee and glanced around the room. “Reyes? You and Hunter should find a chance to talk to him, too. Flatter him as a fellow noble. Make him feel accepted.”

Reyes groaned, and Hunter elbowed him in the ribs.

“Reyes.” Gideon said it mildly, but it was still a reprimand. “You don’t have to enjoy your status, but it’s a valuable tool. Use it.”

After a moment, he relented with a shrug. “All right, all right. I’ll talk to my mother. She’s probably already running intel and surveillance ops that would make us weep with jealousy.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Gideon replied with a hint of a smile. Then he turned to Ivan. “Maricela’s safety is your only concern.”

It wasn’t just an order, it was a quiet declaration. Ivan didn’t have to give voice to the doubts in his heart for Gideon to see them. But his leader still trusted him with the most precious thing in his life.

Ivan swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

Laurel looked up from Zeke’s dancing holographic display. “Anything you want me to do? I mean, I’m nobody...but sometimes that helps.”

Gideon tapped his fingers against the table. “Watch him, especially when he doesn’t think he’s being watched. It’s hard for a Rider to go unnoticed, but if you can get an idea of who he’s talking to, what he’s doing...”

“You bet.”

“Good.” Gideon took a deep breath. “I want to believe this is just an innocent coincidence. But having the lost heir resurface a few weeks after someone attempted to eliminate the Riders? It would be reckless to disregard the potential danger. So if anyone does find something, no matter how small, you come to me immediately. At the first hint of trouble, I want my family out of here. I’ll deal with the political fallout later.”

And that was the Rios sensibility to the bone. Gideon would risk his own life for the sector, but that carelessness didn’t extend to the people he loved.

Unfortunately, in Ivan’s experience, Maricela felt the exact same way.

»»» § «««

The suite the Reyes family had offered Maricela was large and luxurious, with a parlor, a sitting area, and an attached bathroom. As she stared up at the murals on the ceilings and gilded cornices, she tried to calculate how many acolytes must have been shoved into much smaller rooms together just to afford her this extra space.

Ivan came out of the bathroom, running a towel over his freshly shaved face. Damp strands of hair stuck up in spikes, and he’d changed into loose jeans and a thin white T-shirt. He paused next to the bed, a sympathetic half-smile curving his usually stern lips. “Are you doing okay?”

The suite was big, but not big enough for the two of them.

Maricela swallowed a groan and sat up--no small feat, with the thick, fluffy duvet trying to swallow her whole. “I’m fine.”

He gave her a doubtful look before perching on the corner of the bed--something that might have been more intimate if the bed wasn’t so massive. “It’s okay if you’re not.”

“I’m just tired,” she confessed. “It’s been a long, weird day.”

“It has.” He rubbed the towel over his hair, which only served to dishevel it more. “Gideon’s going to find out as much as he can about this Lucas guy, see if we can figure out why he’s here and what he wants.”

“I don’t want to talk about him right now.” She needed to think about something else. Anything else. “What do you like to do? You know, when you’re not working twenty-four hours a day.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up again. “I’m a Rider. I’m always working twenty-four hours a day.”

She stretched out and nudged him with her foot. “You know what I mean. It can’t all be keeping the peace and polishing your knife collection--which you do a lot, by the way.”

“No, I don’t,” he corrected, straight-faced. “Sometimes I’m sharpening them.”

“They’re already sharp.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged and leaned against the bedpost. “The knives are my hobby. When I was a kid, there was a blacksmith who used to do knife throwing at all the street festivals. Mostly flashy tricks to attract attention so he could sell them his kitchen knives.”

“You mean Ed.” Just imagining the burly man’s infectious smile was enough to make Maricela feel a little better. “I love Ed.”

“He’s a good man.” Ivan tilted his head back against the post and closed his eyes. “I never had any money to spend at the fairs, so Ed brought me into his booth and taught me how to polish and sharpen the knives. He overpaid me, too, but it meant I had money to buy candy and presents to try to make my mama smile.”

Sharp, sudden pain twisted in her chest. “It wasn’t fair, what people did to the two of you.”

Ivan didn’t open his eyes, but his jaw tightened for a moment. “It wasn’t as bad for me,” he said quietly. “I was a kid, and people knew I was a kid. Maybe they didn’t help me as much as they should have, but they usually weren’t mean to me. But people were sure my mother had to have known something. That she couldn’t have lived in the house where the kidnapping was plotted and just...been oblivious.”

Nothing felt more helpless than understanding how your life could spin out of control with no warning. People needed to know that Ivan’s mother must have been an accomplice, because accepting that she honestly may not have known about the plot would mean admitting that the same thing could happen to them, and they would be powerless to see it, much less stop it.

“It wasn’t fair,” Maricela said again. “And it wasn’t her fault.”

“No.” He flexed his fingers and finally opened his eyes. “I don’t talk about it a lot because it makes me mad. My mother always had...moods. But they told her she was bad and told her and told her, and eventually she started to believe them.”

Maricela almost reached for him. With any of her other friends, she would have offered a hug or some other soothing physical contact to help ease the pain that old memories could carry. But that seemed dangerous here, with Ivan. She already wanted to touch him in ways that had nothing to do with comfort or friendly support. Crossing the line might prove a temptation too great for her to resist.

She settled back against the padded headboard instead. “I have another brother, you know.”

He tilted his head, one eyebrow raised. “Another brother?”

“I wasn’t an only child when my birth parents died.” How could her own family history seem so unreal, like she was talking about characters in a story instead of her own life? “They had a little boy before me. Relatives took him in, but they couldn’t handle a baby, so.”

“I didn’t know.” Ivan studied her, obviously hesitant to ask what was bound to be a personal question. “Have you met him?”

“No. I know that he lives in Sector Eight. He’s married. They might have kids by now.” She shrugged. “The idea of contacting him doesn’t feel right. What if he doesn’t even know I exist?”

“But you know he exists.”

“I do.”

“Do you want to meet him?”

“Yes and no.” How could she decide when she didn’t know if a meeting would cause the man joy or pain? “I’m not sure it’s worth the chance. What if he doesn’t even know about our birth parents? I could ruin his life, Ivan.”

“Maybe,” he allowed after a moment. Then he shrugged. “I’m not exactly good with family. I don’t know what I’d do. But anyone who wasn’t happy to get you as a sister would be a fool.”

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away with a grin. “You’re sweet. Why does everyone else in this sector think you’re such a hard-ass?”

“Because I am.” He rocked to his feet and slung the towel over his shoulder. “I’m not sweet, Maricela, not even a little. I’m just telling the truth as I see it.”

“Then you’re biased.” She watched as he walked over to the sofa where the servants had left his bedding. It was only a dozen feet away, with nothing separating them. “Is this going to be weird? The sleeping arrangements?”

He paused with the blanket in his hands, his gaze sweeping the room as if looking for an alternative. “Will it bother you?”

She rolled to her side and propped her head on her hand. “Do you realize that when a question is tricky or delicate, you answer it with another question?”

His mouth opened. Closed again. His brows drew together in a frown.

“Uh-huh. It makes me wonder how different your answers would be if you couldn’t buy yourself enough time to consider them.”

“You want the truth?”

“Always. There’s no other reason to ask questions.”

Ivan’s sudden smile transformed his entire face. “I spent a bunch of years sharing a room with Reyes. I don’t care how weird it gets, it’s not gonna get Reyes weird.”

The words--and the smile--were irresistible. “Explain, please. Did he drag you headfirst into his debauchery?”

He snapped the blanket out and let it float down to cover the couch. “Maybe once or twice.”

Envy roared up inside her. He’d lived. For better or worse, regrets and all, he’d experienced things that she couldn’t even imagine.

All Maricela had ever done was exactly what had been expected of her.

She sank to the bed and went back to staring at the slightly garish ceiling. “How depressing.”

The springs of the couch creaking softly were followed by his soft sigh. “I know this is hard on you...”

“No, it isn’t.” People went through far more difficult things every day. She’d been through far more difficult things. “It’s stupid.”

“Stop it.” His voice was still low, but the lack of deference was new. He sounded almost firm. “You don’t have to do that all the time, you know. Shove down every bad thing you feel.”

She wasn’t sure about that. Some people struggled so hard, every day, and she had everything. She always had. She was a literal goddamn princess. “It’s indulgent. My life is nearly perfect. What more can I want?”

“It’s not a contest, Maricela. We’ve all got our own shit. Yours is different, and most people won’t understand it. And if you went around whining to refugees that it sucks having to have a bodyguard all the time, you’d be a pretty big asshole. But that doesn’t mean you can’t admit it in the privacy of your own damn bedroom. Just say it. It’s shitty not to have any freedom.”

She struggled back up on her elbows. “I have freedom--”

“You can’t even have sex with your boyfriend without a guard sitting outside the door,” he interrupted. “That’s shitty, Maricela. Say it. Say it’s shitty.”

There were a hundred things she wanted to say instead. That Colin Visscher wasn’t her boyfriend. That it wasn’t having a guard sitting outside that was the problem, it was having that guard be Ivan. That he didn’t have any idea about what she wanted, because what she wanted was a bunch of things he wouldn’t even let himself think about.

“You want to know what’s shitty?” The covers were so heavy she could barely lift them, but she needed something between them. Some sort of shield. “You kicked him out. There was no good reason for Colin to leave my bed that night, but you made him do it anyway.”

He was silent for a long time. The answer, when it came, was honest and blunt. “Yeah, that was shitty. Like I said, Maricela. I’m not sweet.”

“Right.” Maybe he was something else, something better and worse than sweet. Something Maricela could relate to, one hundred percent.

Maybe he was infatuated.