And then he’s gone, stalking back up the tunnel and taking the light with him. I was right—he doesn’t have the stomach to kill me. He’s going to make someone else do it. So much for having some company before I die.
I should keep trying to work the post free, but I know I’m not going anywhere until they decide I am. I know it like I know the truth: they’re going to kill me. Romeo might not know it yet—he might think the military will give these people something in exchange for my safe return. But Base Commander Towers follows procedure to the letter, and that includes captured soldiers. We don’t work like that. We don’t make deals.
And they’re not coming for me.
I’ve just managed to doze a little, chin dropped to my chest, when the scrape of footsteps and a light playing against my eyelids rouses me. I push away the flicker of warmth it brings, the sudden stab of relief that he hasn’t left me here to rot alone after he left so angry.
Romeo, can’t you see I need my beauty sleep?
I open one eye, and my heart sinks.
It’s not Romeo. It’s someone I’ve never seen before, a tall, burly man twice Romeo’s size. Most of his face is covered by a kerchief, which is the only good sign I’ve had since I woke. Concealing his face means he isn’t here to kill me—or he hasn’t made up his mind yet.
“So it’s true.” The man is staring at me with a burning intensity that lifts the hairs on the back of my neck in warning. He steps into the cavern from the tunnel slowly, deliberately. “Captain Jubilee Chase.”
His voice is quiet, almost genial—yet on his lips my name sounds like a curse.
I draw myself up slowly and say nothing. I know how this plays out, and there’s nothing I can say that will change what’s about to happen.
Romeo, where are you?
“Hard to believe our resident pacifist thought he could capture an enemy officer and keep her hidden in our base.” The man paces to one side and sets his lantern down on a shelf of rock. He pauses there, eyes scanning me slowly, raking over my body, dwelling on the bruised, welted flesh beneath the ropes binding me. “And I thought it was too good to be true.”
Despite his calm voice, his eyes carry a fevered hatred in them that freezes my blood. Whoever this man is, he’s not entirely sane. I’ve seen that look on other planets, in other rebellions. This is the kind of person who walks into a school and blows it up to make a point. This is what keeps me awake at night—what keeps me questioning every strange face, enforcing every new security measure. Men like this are why I’m here.
My gut tightens with dread, and I look away, fixing my eyes on the ceiling and running over my training like a litany. Don’t engage. Don’t give him what he wants.
“Perhaps you can settle an argument for me,” the man murmurs, crossing over toward me and dropping to a crouch not far away. “My wife used to say the military doesn’t open its hospitals to civilians because it’ll remove the motivation to develop our own. I always told her it’s because you’re a bunch of sadistic bastards who want to watch us die.”
We don’t let civilians into our hospitals because these “civilians” are as likely to walk in with weapons as with wounds—but it’ll do no good to explain that to him. I’m not sure he’d hear me if I did.
“Too good to talk to me, trodaire? Look at me.” The man reaches out to grab my chin, wrenching my face into the light. I clench my jaw, and his own face tightens. “You people,” he whispers, his voice shaking a little. “If you had the tiniest shred of human decency, you never would’ve turned away a six-year-old boy from the treatment that would’ve saved his life.”
My eyes dart up, meeting his before I can stop the impulse.
“Ah,” he says quietly. “There it is. You think my son would’ve compromised base security? Still think you’re better than us, condemning children to die?”
Shit. He’s lost family. That explains the look in his eyes. I don’t answer, staring through the gloom. It’s so easy to see an angry eight-year-old girl there looking back at me, like the space between us is a mirror, like the last ten years of my life never happened.
“I asked you a question.” The man lets go of my face with a jerk that sends me crashing to the ground, rope jerking at my arms and my wounded side wrenching. I let out an involuntary cry of pain, the rebel’s face swimming dizzyingly in my vision. “Do you think you’re better than us?”
I try not to choke, try to calm my breathing, but that fever’s burning openly in the man’s eyes now. His bloodlust is stirring, firing in response to my pain. “You think ignoring me will make me go away. But I’m a patient man, Captain Chase. Your people taught me that. Be patient. Beg for every scrap of food, every dose of medicine.” He leans forward, and I can feel his breath on my face when he speaks again. “I’ll teach you how to beg, trodaire.”
His hand shoots out and slams my head down to the stone, the flat of his palm hitting me in the eye. He lurches to his feet, and then his boot connects with my rib cage with a sickening thud—my vision clouds, the air groaning out of me before my mind registers the pain.
“That’s the difference between you and me,” I gasp finally, fighting for consciousness. “I don’t beg.”
This time his snarl of rage is inarticulate, wordless, as he surrenders to what he came here to do, falling on me with all his rage and pain and grief. Even through the pain, through the sound of my own bones bruising and cracking, I can see his thoughts. Because there’s no difference between this man and the grief-stricken eight-year-old girl I used to be. He’ll keep beating me, keep kicking and punching and screaming at me, until he can’t see his son’s face anymore.