Secondborn

“I don’t know for sure where she’s been,” Suki replies giddily, “but it’s all too curious that we find her here, in the Treetop love nest of Clifton Salloway.” She clasps her hands in her lap and leans closer to Desdemona, her long black hair hanging to her ankles in a shimmering cascade. “Maybe we should reach out to his ex-flame, Firstborn Celestial Bastille?” I don’t know who that is, but I hope with a rising panic that they don’t.

Hammon joins me at the glass doors, but her focus, like mine, is on the wall screen. “You’ve made it onto the Daily Diamond!” she breathes in awe.

Desdemona flips her long hair as she discusses Clifton Salloway and his string of broken hearts. Her hair is gorgeous, seven shades of blue, sewn to her head with the darkest of thread so that the seams form diamond patterns. Diamond sparkles glisten from her long eyelashes and over her dark cheekbones. Her blue lips are painted with a white diamond in the center, and so are her long blue fingernails.

“This is a delicious turn of events, Roselle,” Emmitt whispers in my ear, almost preening when Suki and Desdemona begin discussing my outfit again. They note its exquisite fit and speculate that designers might favor a military cut and style in their spring collections. “Use this to your advantage. Clifton Salloway is a dream come true, and he wants to meet you.”

“He’s here?” I ask. I couldn’t feel more awkward if I’d walked into the glass doors in front of me.

“He’s right over there.” Emmitt puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me in the direction of the bar. In the corner of it, a firstborn officer stands with a three-finger glass of light blue liquid. He’s leaning against the back counter, watching me. I’m startled that I didn’t notice him before. While Hawthorne is the rugged kind of handsome, Clifton is the film-star kind of gorgeous. Attired in a black Exo uniform similar to Gabriel’s, Clifton is the highest-ranking Sword outside of an admiral. Exo is the rank given to both exceptionally well-trained firstborn soldiers and a few aristocratic firstborns with very little military prowess. I don’t know where he falls.

As if my eyes on him are an invitation, he pushes away from the counter and prowls nearer. Stopping a foot away, he takes my left hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses the crown of my birthmark, causing my silver sword moniker to shine on the bridge of his nose. My heartbeat hammers in my ears.

“Roselle,” he murmurs, “Clifton Salloway. It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.” Behind him, on the screen, the co-anchors of the Daily Diamond are in a frenzy, commentating on the “primal chemistry” between Clifton and me. Clifton gives a soft chuckle. “We’ve been found out, Roselle,” he teases.

My laugh is more nervous. “I hate when that happens, Patrøn. It ruins the fun.”

“Someone as lovely as you should never have her fun ruined. And I insist that you call me Clifton.” Clifton looks to be in his midtwenties, although his clean-shaven cheeks might be making him look younger than he is. Sultry green eyes, with flecks of gold that resemble the tails of shooting stars, stare back at me from beneath a whiplash of blond hair swept to the side. His eyes grow brighter as he releases my hand with some reluctance.

“So, this is your apartment, Clifton?” I ask as he straightens.

“One of them. It’s where I stay when I’m required to fulfill my active duty tours.”

“I see. Thank you for the use of your apartment. It was generous of you.”

“It was no trouble, I assure you. I am a fan of yours.”

My eyebrow lifts. “A fan of mine?”

“You have taught me a fair number of sword maneuvers. Tell me, would you consider giving me private lessons?”

“I—” I look away from his handsome face in utter bewilderment. Surely he must know that I’m not in charge of my own destiny. I’m told when I must rise and when I’m to sleep, when to eat and when to train, when to study and when to bathe. It’s all out of my control—everything about my life is out of my control.

Hawthorne joins me. “I believe they’re ready for you outside, Roselle.” His hand gently angles me toward the glass doors.

“Excuse me, Patrøn,” I murmur to Clifton.

“Of course,” Clifton replies with a wink.

As I turn away, Hawthorne growls low to Clifton. “She doesn’t give private lessons. Go find someone your own age to train with.”

I glance over my shoulder at them. Clifton stares at my backside. “I’m bored with my trainers. They lack the kind of ferociousness that I see in Roselle. She would give me quite a workout.”

“She’s only eighteen.” Hawthorne stands rigidly between us.

“So it’s okay to send her to war, but not to allow her to—”

“If it were up to me, she’d never see a battlefield.”

“Then tell her to consider training with me, and I’ll make sure she never sees combat.”

Hawthorne turns. “Gilad, this Exo wants private lessons. He’s looking for ferociousness. You up for a training session?”