Chapter 30
Symond’s leg twitched. He inhaled, chest tight as he tried to ignore the smell of raw wood and Violette’s faint, minty scent.
She sat across from him, calm as a sleeping cat, which only riled him up more.
How could she be so damn composed when he was hanging on by a thread?
He shifted, arms folded, trying not to explode into a million pieces right there in the wagon.
"You're fidgety today," Violette said, head tilted slightly, an eyebrow raised.
He forced his attention to the wooden crates stacked around them, their rough edges catching the weak midday light as the wagon bumped and swayed beneath him.
It was cramped in here. Cramped and hot, with the heat of the summer sun seeping through the boards.
He and Violette hadn’t paid for this ride, but she always had ways of making things work.
One moment they were crouched behind barrels, listening to a patrol march past; the next, they were buried in this pile of planks and dust, the driver none the wiser.
"Still brooding?" Violette's voice cut through his thoughts.
Symond clenched his jaw. "I'm not brooding."
"Seething, then."
He glared at her, the fire in his eyes daring her to push harder. But she just sat there, inscrutable as a stone. He hated that about her—the way nothing ever seemed to scratch her surface. She was a constant reminder of everything he wasn't: composed, controlled, competent.
He looked away, staring out a slit in the boards where streaks of gray and green rushed by. A wagon jostled past in the opposite direction, the drivers mumbling pleasantries that made Symond roll his eyes.
"If you need to hit something..." Violette trailed off, casually examining her nails.
"I don't need to hit something," he snapped. He rubbed at the fresh scar on his forearm from where Elora sank her teeth into him.
He didn't want to think about it.
Not about the barn. Not about Elora.
Not about the way his body had reacted. The way he'd convinced himself it was just attraction. Normal attraction to a woman who'd fought him and lost. That's all it was. It had to be.
It was just hormones, he told himself again, the same mantra he'd been repeating since they left. Adrenaline and testosterone. Nothing more.
He focused on the squeak of the wagon wheels instead. But he could still feel Violette's eyes on him. "Just say it," he growled at last. "Whatever you're thinking."
"I'm thinking you look like hell," she said. "And you're no use to anyone if you keep running yourself ragged."
He scowled. "I'm doing just fine."
"Is that why you've been flinching every time I speak?"
She had a point, but he wasn't about to admit it. He kicked at the floor of the wagon, sending up a small puff of dust.
"You know," Violette continued, "it wouldn't kill you to talk about it."
"Why do you care so much?"
"Because I can't have you losing your edge over some girl." Her sharp gaze locked on him.
His face heated. "It's not about her." The lie came out sharper than he intended. "It's just... the fight got intense, that's all. Physical reactions happen. It's normal."
Keep saying that. Maybe it'll become true.
Violette watched him, and he had to look away before she saw too much. He shook his head, trying to keep that creeping doubt from taking over again. It was easier when he could convince himself it was simple attraction.
"Why don't you just say it?" he shot back. "That I'm a liability."
"You're a liability," she said.
He flinched, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.
"But not the kind you think." Violette's voice softened just enough to make him wince again. "It's whatever's eating at you from the inside. The thing you won't talk about."
Symond's stomach twisted. She was getting too close to something he didn't want examined. "There's nothing eating at me. I just... I reacted to her. Like any man would. It's not complicated."
Please let her believe that. Please let me believe that.
"Then enlighten me," she shot back. "What exactly are you so worked up about if it's just a normal reaction?"
But how could he tell her? How could he explain that he was terrified his body's response had nothing to do with wanting Elora and everything to do with being conditioned to respond when overpowered?
That every time he told himself it was attraction, a sick voice in his head whispered that Gerard had trained him to feel this way?
He let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair. "There's nothing to say," he muttered, hating the tremor in his voice. "It was just... physical. That's what happens sometimes when you fight someone. Especially when..." He gestured vaguely, unable to finish the sentence.
Especially when you want them, he tried to tell himself. But the words felt hollow, like a lie he was getting tired of telling.
Violette leaned forward, studying him like she was trying to solve a puzzle where all the pieces were missing.
"I can handle it," Symond said, louder this time, more for himself than her. He didn’t believe it, not really, but it felt good to push back.
"For now," Violette said. Her tone was frustratingly gentle. She looked out at the gray horizon like she had just decided something, but Symond was too wound up to notice much past his own fury.
The wagon hit another bump, and he grabbed the side of a crate to steady himself.
What was he doing here? When would it end?
He thought about just jumping out, rolling into the dust and taking off where no one could watch him flail.
But he was in too deep. With her, with The Hive.
He kicked the wall again and tasted splinters.
“Listen,” Violette said. “Take the next mission off.”
He barked a laugh. “Right. So I can sit around and feel even more useless?”
“No. So you have more time to work with the combat trainer.”
That made him listen. Training meant work. Work meant distraction. Distraction meant forgetting.
He nodded, a little too eagerly.
The wagon rolled on, and the silence that stretched between them felt lighter this time, like he could breathe through it without tasting blood.
It felt like hours before it finally lurched to a stop. Violette was up first, pushing open the back, letting in a rush of dusty air that stung Symond’s lungs. She tossed him a look, somewhere between exasperated and amused, and hopped out.
Symond followed, landing harder than he meant to on the packed dirt road. His legs were stiff from being coiled tight so long.
The dirt road cut through bleak fields of dried up nothing, leading to the dull roar of city life.
They were nearly there. Aszona rose like a beast, its tangled skyline of smokestacks and spires clawing at the overcast sky.
The closer they got, the more the city seemed to hum with a strange, mechanical life, all whistles and clanging metal.
The road beneath their feet shifted from dirt to cobblestones slick with rain and probably piss.
He squinted at the tangle of horse-drawn carriages and steam-fueled contraptions, the clamor of pedestrians wrapped in long coats and longer gossip. He hated cities. Too many people. Too many moving parts. Too many eyes.
But the food… That was one thing he’d come to enjoy since leaving the Institute. Smoke bellowed from a nearby street vendor’s cart, filling the air with the greasy smell of fried bread and cheap sausage.
Symond’s stomach grumbled at the thought of sinking his teeth in some delicious fried bread. But not sausage. Never sausage.
He could practically hear Violette’s smirk as she peeled off toward one of the Hive’s hidden access points. She knew he’d give in to the smell.
Damn her.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and slunk over to the cart. The peddler looked about as old as time, with a face like crumpled parchment.
“Fried flat?” Symond asked, trying not to sound desperate.
The man gave him a long, disapproving look up and down before thrusting a greasy paper bag at him. Symond tore into it with all the grace of a starved animal, the hot dough scalding his mouth in a strangely comforting way.
The old man muttered something about hungry dogs, but Symond didn’t care. He was already down the street, stuffing the last crumb in his mouth and dodging a rickety steam-cart that puffed past him like a wheezing dragon.
The street narrowed into an alley, and then another.
The sounds of the city faded behind him, replaced by the distant bark of dogs and the clatter of hoofbeats on stone.
Symond took the longest possible route back, past low buildings with boarded-up windows and lanes so narrow he could stretch his arms between them and touch both sides.
He ducked through a hidden doorway, then through a basement from which the smell of MahōKi Sap was nearly overwhelming.
Finally, he emerged onto a broad avenue, where Violette leaned against an ornate iron gate that spilled open into a lush courtyard.
“Took a wrong turn,” he muttered.
She shook her head and pushed herself off the wall.
Together they entered the Hive’s headquarters, a grand multi-level monstrosity of sweeping gables and polished wood that looked more like a nobleman’s estate than a base of operations for Aszona’s most notorious gang.
Even when she’d first brought him here, he couldn’t quite believe it—a mansion for criminals?
Symond wondered how the hell they got away with it.
Inside, the warm air was a strange blend of enamel and dust, like old money that didn’t want to be remembered.
People moved through the hallways with quiet purpose, all sharp eyes and sharper clothes.
A few of them nodded at Violette as they passed, sparing only the briefest glance for Symond before their faces turned back to business.
Violette led the way up a grand staircase, her boots silent on the purple runner. He trailed behind, trying to look like he belonged there.
“I’m going to go see if the boss is back. Then I’ll set up that training,” she said, sending him a quick look over her shoulder. “You should go get some rest.”
He nodded, grateful for the out.
His room was on one of the upper floors, tucked away in a quiet corner of the house. He liked it for its solitude. But even more so that it had an extra lock that couldn’t be opened with a key.
He slumped onto the edge of his unmade bed and let his head fall into his hands. His hair fell over his eyes, shutting out the world for just a moment. Just long enough to remember why he kept it all at arm’s length in the first place.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door.
Even in the quiet, something crawled beneath his skin.