It’d taken him months longer than it should have, because he’d insisted both on smuggling everything directly into the manor—it wouldn’t have been any fun if he hadn’t built them right under Augustus’s nose—and sourcing every component he couldn’t literally make by hand from so far from the Core, no one within ten thousand light-years could be implicated.
Though as altruistic as that reasoning sounded, guilt that someone innocent might catch the blame had nothing to do with it. It had to be so obviously Cavalon’s doing, that even by Augustus’s absurd, roundabout logic, it couldn’t be twisted into some ridiculous lie that would further his cause.
More importantly, whether or not Augustus concocted a cover story for the public, at least he would have to know the truth—who’d really been responsible. So he couldn’t throw blame or sweep it under the rug, then ignore the problem entirely and stick Cavalon into another round of “reconditioning.” So he’d have to actually fucking do something about it for once. He’d certainly called Cavalon’s bluff on that.
He steadied his breath and tried to end it there, but the unwanted thought train rolled right on to the next suppressed memory: his last day at the manor. Cavalon had gone days without sleep, but somehow his fatigued limbs had propelled him forward as he stepped into Augustus’s upholstered office, gilded depictions of his ancestors glaring down at him from the high-ceilinged walls. Despite the circumstances, his chest had been light, limbs energized, filled to the brim with a confidence completely fueled by blind relief. Because he’d done it—really done it, finally, after all those months spent working toward it. It was over, and now whatever happened, happened, and would be beyond his control.
Panic hadn’t set in until the first unnerving sight of the Mercer Guard turning on him—the same people who’d shadowed him every damn place he went for the last twenty-seven years. Men and women he’d simultaneously hated, trusted, and relied on all too often to pull him by the scruff out of his own messes. Without so much as a second thought, they’d gone after him, treating him like any other miscreant as they shackled him and locked him in the cellar. Not that he could have expected anything different. They were Augustus’s lapdogs, through and through.
Cavalon’s chest tightened, the pressure weighing on his already strained heartbeat. The air thickened, and for a moment, he feared the oxygen had somehow been sucked out of the infernal missile compartment.
He closed his eyes and blew out a series of long, slow breaths, pushing every semi-adjacent, rage-filled memory from his mind. Some days, he truly hated the fact that he could remember every damn thing he’d ever seen or done. And shit-cutting, in all likelihood, did not include having a panic attack before he could even begin the task.
Summoning up a much newer memory of Rake’s judgmental glower, he opened his eyes and refocused on his assignment. He slid back toward the closest line of missiles, the raised conduit tracks for the repair drones digging into his back as he shimmied.
Settling under one of the central racks, his eyes drifted over the series of articulated cradles clutching each missile. He had no idea if they were meant to be unloaded this way, but he didn’t see what choice he had.
Turning onto his side, he folded his legs up and hunched into a massively uncomfortable crouch in the low overhead. He stuck the light disc against the underside of a nearby cradle and it adhered with a soft shink. Shimmying one arm up around the missile, he again resisted the urge to summon his royal Imprints to aid in the heavy lifting. He fumbled around with his other hand, hunting for some kind of release latch.
When he found it, the cradle snapped fully open. His royal Imprints triggered on instinct, flooding his arms and abdomen to help him catch the sudden weight.
He locked both arms around the casing as his heart leapt up his throat, heat flooding his cheeks—either from the shock of almost dropping a thermonuclear bomb, or from his Imprints activating, or probably both. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breath again.
Positive he’d die at any moment, Cavalon kept his Imprints activated long enough to guide the missile safely back to the small access hatch. It clanged to the metal deck a little hard as he pushed it out into the blissfully cool repair suite. Emery stood gaping, and concerned shock creased Warner’s brow as he eyed Cavalon fumbling with the heavy missile.