War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,79

anyone but him.

When the prince walks away, he passes by Mare with long, quick strides. Her brothers watch him go, eyes trailing in the prince’s wake. If they were Calore burners, I think they might set him on fire. The sister is less hostile, but more disappointed. She frowns at his retreating form, lip between her teeth. She looks more like Mare when she does that, especially when her frown deepens into a sneer.

Cal stops at my right, settling into a wide-legged stance, crossing his arms over a plain black uniform.

“You need a better mask, Calore,” I mutter to him. He only scowls. “And she needs to keep to our schedule.”

“She’s leaving her family behind, Evangeline,” he growls in reply. “We can spare the minutes.”

I heave a sigh and examine my nails. No claws today. No need for them on the journey back home. “So many allowances where Barrow is concerned. I wonder where that line is, and what happens when she inevitably crosses it.”

Instead of snarling back, as I expect, he chuckles low in his throat. “Try to spread your misery all you want, Princess. It’s the only thing you have left.”

Gritting my teeth, I clench a fist. And I wish I’d donned my claws.

“Don’t pretend I’m the only one miserable here,” I snap.

That cows him into silence, the tips of his ears flushing a stubborn gray.

With a last embrace, Mare finally finishes all her hysterical nonsense. She turns tightly, shoulders squared away from her brood. Their faces vary, but they all have a likeness. Similar coloring, dark eyes and golden-toned skin. Dark brown hair but for the sister and the graying parents. There’s a common roughness to them, born in their blood. As if they were shaped from earth and we were shaped from stone.

The Red boy keeps pace as Mare walks toward us, tugged along on an invisible leash. He looks over his shoulder to wave back at the family, but Mare doesn’t. I respect that instinct, at least. Her dogged and sometimes ill-advised habit of pressing forward at all costs.

Cal looks up as she passes, stomping her way into the jet. His hand flexes, fingers grazing her arm as she goes. His skin is pale against the sleeve of her rust-colored jacket. But she doesn’t stop and he doesn’t stop her. He only stares at her disappearing form, throat bobbing with the words he can’t find it in himself to say.

Part of me wants to prod him after her with a sharp knife. The rest wants to cut out that heart of his, since he insists on ignoring it and subjecting me to a similar pain.

“Shall we, my future husband?” I growl, offering him my arm. The spikes of my metallic coat lie flat, glistening against one another in invitation.

Cal eyes me darkly, his teeth clenched into a forced grin. Dutiful to the last, he slips his arm around mine, resting his hand below my wrist. His skin blazes with heat, almost too hot to touch. I feel sweat prickle on my neck and fight the urge to shiver in disgust. “Of course, my future wife.”

How I used to want this, I don’t know.

Any revulsion I feel is quickly swallowed by excitement as we board the jet, our steps matched as we climb into the iron hulk. All that stands between me and a reunion with the ones I love most is a few short hours of flight. Squeezed alongside Cal and Mare and whatever dramatic sighs and meaningful stares they might toss at each other, yes, but I can handle it. Ptolemus is waiting.

Elane is waiting.

Even thousands of miles away, I feel the cool balm of her presence, a cold towel on fevered skin. White skin, red hair, all the stars in her eyes, the moon in her teeth.

When I was thirteen, I cut Elane to ribbons in the Training ring. For Father, for even the chance of his approval. I cried for a week afterward, and spent another month apologizing. She understood, of course. We know what our families are, what they demand, what we must be for them. And as the years wore on, such things became expected. Ordinary. We fought daily, hurting each other, hurting ourselves. In Training, with healers at the ready. We desensitized ourselves to the necessary violence of our days. But I wouldn’t do it to her now. Wouldn’t hurt her for anyone on this earth, even with the best healers in the world waiting to attend her. Not