Xander lifted his hand, gesturing to Eden, who stood just outside the circle of our voices, watching us with her polished black eyes. I never actually saw her move, but I was certain she had somehow given a signal of her own.

From out of the shadows, a group of Xander’s soldiers marched toward us in unison, dressed in mismatched uniforms and carrying unpolished weapons. They were the antimilitary, but clearly just as formidable. They approached in measured steps, giving their disorganized-looking group a sense of order.

Then one girl stepped to the front of the militia, leading the way, a combat rifle slung over her shoulder.

It was Brooklynn.

I knocked my chair over in my rush to reach her. I gripped her shoulders, momentarily forgetting to be alarmed by her sudden appearance as I pulled her against me, whispering against her dirt-smudged cheek. “You’re okay. Thank heaven, you’re okay.”

But somehow, she felt different in my arms, like a different Brook from the one I’d known all my life. She certainly looked different.

She pulled away, and I surveyed her face. It was harder than I remembered it, tougher. Stronger.

“I was never in danger, Charlie.” Even her voice sounded unusual to my ears. That was something I knew I hadn’t imagined.

I wasn’t sure how to respond; my head ached and my heart squeezed. So much had changed in just one short day.

Xander came to stand beside me, and that was when I saw it, a flicker of the old Brooklynn—my familiar friend—behind the cool exterior she now wore. Her eyes seemed to brim with adoration as she glanced at him.

“Send your team to the surface,” Xander told Brooklynn. His voice was no-nonsense, a leader giving a command. “Tell them to check on Charlie’s parents, and to let them know that Charlie and Angelina are safe, that they’re under our protection now.” He squeezed my shoulder. His hand was strong, his words comforting. But like that, with that single gesture, the light faded from Brook’s gaze.

Xander. Brooklynn had a thing for Xander.

THE QUEEN

Queen Sabara waited until the room had been cleared, until it was just she and Max and his two guards, before she spoke again. It gave her the time she needed to compose herself.

But her voice, when it found its way to her lips, was like unyielding steel. “Who is she, Maxmillian? Who is the girl that vendor boy spoke of?”

Her grandson stepped forward, his expression earnest. But his voice rang false, giving her pause. “She’s no one, just a girl I met in one of the clubs.” His loyalty was now in question.

She studied him, holding his gaze and clutching her armrests until her knuckles ached. She would need to choose her questions carefully. “Which club? Perhaps it was the one in which the resistance was last headquartered? Was it that club?”

His eyebrow lifted, likely unintentionally, and she had her answer even before his measured words hit the air. “I don’t recall exactly. It’s possible that was the club.”

“And the girl, was she keeping company with anyone you recognized? Members of the resistance, perhaps?”

He bent at the waist, dropping into a gentlemanly bow, and she knew immediately that this was not a gesture of respect—it was meant to hide the deceit on his face. “No, Your Majesty, she was not.”

One of the guards cleared his throat, and the queen’s brows snapped together. She lifted her chin, forcing her words to resonate. “I remind you all that committing perjury to your queen is punishable by Jm" qit. @eful death. If you’ve anything to add, now is the time to do so.”

The only answer she received was that of Baxter’s untimely entrance into the throne room, interrupting her warning. She locked gazes with her grandson, a boy she’d scarcely noticed before this moment, a boy whom she now suspected of withholding information, pertinent or not. Subversion could come in many forms.

“I caution you, Maxmillian, should this girl turn out to be a member of the resistance, I shall not hesitate to send you to the gallows right alongside her.” The blood left her lips as she pressed them tightly together. She meant what she said.

“Of course.” His response was so casual, his voice no more serious than if they’d been discussing a feast spread before them, or a painting, or the weather . . . anything other than the threat of his execution. He bowed again bef

ore exiting the room.

Only when he and his guards were gone did Sabara lean back in her throne, feeling suddenly breathless, her skin prickling with cold sweat. It took several moments before she acknowledged her adviser.

“I don’t care what it takes, Baxter, I want you to find this Charlie before sunup. If she has information about the resistance, I insist on knowing what it is.”

Baxter straightened, clearing his throat. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’ll send some men out to retrieve her immediately. If she knows anything, we’ll find out.”

The queen glared, unable to purge the image of her grandson’s insolence from her mind. She shook her head and skewered Baxter with a fierce glare, glad to see someone squirm in fear. “No! Bring her to me. If she knows anything, I mean to discover it myself.” Then her lips parted in a cruel smirk. “Besides, I find myself curious about the girl my grandson is willing to risk his life to protect.”

MAX

Max strode into his chambers and waited to hear the sound of the door closing behind him. Even without looking back, he knew he wasn’t alone.

“You would damn us all for a girl?” It was Claude who made the accusation.