“I’m not saying it isn’t,” Hunt countered. “But the Asteri won’t care if he’s thirteen or thirty, if he’s a true rebel or not. You stand in their way, and they’ll punish you.”
Bryce opened her mouth, but—a muscle flickered in his cheek, making the bruise there all the more noticeable. Guilt punched through her, warring with her ire. “I’ll think about it,” she conceded, and stalked for her bedroom.
She needed a breather before she said or did more than she meant to. A moment to process the information she’d gotten out of Tharion. She hadn’t put any stock in Briggs’s claim about Danika and the rebels when he’d taunted her with it—he’d been trying to get at her in any way possible. But it seemed she’d been wrong.
She scoured her memory for any detail as she washed away her makeup, then brushed her hair. Male voices rumbled from the other side of the door, but Bryce ignored them, changing into her pajamas. Her stomach gurgled.
Was Emile hungry? He was a kid—alone in the world, having suffered in one of those gods-forsaken camps, no family left. He had to be terrified. Traumatized.
She hoped Sofie was alive. Not for any intel or amazing powers, but so Emile had someone left. Family who loved him for him and not for being some all-powerful chosen one whose people had long ago been hunted to extinction.
Bryce frowned in the mirror. Then at the stack of papers Tharion had handed her. The emails between Sofie and Danika—and a few between Sofie and Emile.
The former were exactly as Tharion had claimed. Vague mentions of things.
But Sofie and Emile’s emails …
I had to leave your sunball game before the end, Sofie had written in one exchange more than three years ago, but Mom told me you guys won! Congrats—you were amazing out there!
Emile had replied, I was ok. Missed 2 shots.
Sofie had written back, at three in the morning—as if she’d been up late studying or partying—I once had a game when I missed ten shots! So you’re doing way better than me. :）
The next morning, Emile had said, Thanks, sis. Miss u.
Bryce swallowed hard. Such an ordinary exchange—proof of a normal, decent life.
What had happened to them? How had he wound up in Kavalla? Part of her didn’t want to know, and yet … She read the emails again. The loving, casual exchange between siblings.
Did any of the many people searching for Emile want to actually help him? Not use him, but just … protect him? Maybe he and Sofie would find each other at that rendezvous spot Danika had mentioned. Maybe they’d get lucky, and no one would ever find them.
Danika had always helped those who needed it. Bryce included.
And during the spring attack, when Bryce had run to Asphodel Meadows … it was the same feeling creeping over her now. The boy needed help. She wouldn’t walk away from it. Couldn’t walk away from it.
But how did Danika factor in to all of this? She needed to know.
Her stomach protested again. Right—dinner. With a silent prayer to Cthona to keep Emile safe, Bryce emerged from the bedroom and said, “I’m ordering pizza.”
Ruhn said, “I’m in,” as if he’d been invited, but Bryce glanced at the shut door to Hunt’s bedroom.
If she needed a moment, he’d sure as Hel need a lot longer.
Hunt turned on the shower with a shaking hand. The blast and splatter of the water provided much-needed white noise, a quieting barrier against the world beyond his bathroom. He’d muttered something about needing a shower and walked in here, not caring what Danaan and Holstrom thought.
Hunt peeled out of his battle-suit, dimly aware of the bruises along his ribs and his face, the brawl with Pollux almost forgotten.
He couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the surge of acid through his veins that made every breath torturous.
Fucking Tharion. That stupid, arrogant asshole. Dragging them—dragging Bryce—into this. The River Queen might have no association with Ophion, but Emile was a rebel’s brother. Danika had possibly been a rebel herself. It brought them far too close to Ophion’s orbit.
Of course Bryce wouldn’t have been able to drop it once she’d heard. He knew it was irrational to be pissed at her about it, because part of why he adored her was that she was the kind of person who would want to help, but … fucking Hel.
Hunt sucked in a breath, stepping into the now-warm stream, and clenched his jaw against the rising thunder in his blood and the memories that came with it.
Those strategy meetings in Shahar’s war tent; the bloody, screaming chaos of battle; his roar as Shahar died, a piece of his heart dying with her; the bolt of unrelenting pain as his wings were sawed off tendon by tendon—