22

Friday evening arrived, and with it, the night of the Foundation Ball.

Mom had totally come through for me. The dress my father had delivered earlier bore no resemblance to the puffy-sleeved monstrosity that she'd dragged out from her bedroom closet.

I should have had more faith in her genius designer abilities, just like I should have had more faith in my father. I'd dreaded our first confrontation, worried he would be so disappointed in me. But he'd drawn me in for a hug, and there was no condemnation in his eyes, only love. He insisted Roman and I come over for Sunday lunch, and he'd said nothing about my recent unavailability.

Roman was in the shower when I unboxed the dress and stepped into it. I couldn't reach the pearl buttons that started just below my shoulder blades, so I left those for him and moved to stand before the mirror.

The shawl had been stripped from the square bodice, and the sleeves were slender, delicate chiffon cuffs that just clipped the curve of my shoulder. There wasn't a bow or pouf in sight. Mom had also recut the skirt so it skimmed my hips and then flared slightly to swirl around my ankles.

I heard the shower turn off, and my skin flushed. Usually I preferred comfort clothes, but the thought of Roman seeing me in this sexy dress was definitely worth the effort. I smoothed my palms down my sides and when I turned from the mirror, he was slanting a shoulder against the doorframe with a wolfish grin, arms folded, wearing nothing but a towel that rode low on his hips.

His hair was damp, falling over his forehead in a mess. His close-shaved jaw was all angles and shadows, darkly chiseled and pulse-stopping.

His eyes glinted with sinful thoughts.

"Could you?" I turned to the mirror again, giving him my back. "I can't reach the buttons."

He came to stand behind me, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." My breath hitched. "You don't look too bad, yourself."

His thumb grazed a path down the column of my throat, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm not dressed," he drawled, low and husky.

Awareness raised heat over my skin, and I felt wicked, wickedly brave. "Maybe that's the way I like you."

A chuckle rumbled from him as he pressed a sensual kiss to my collar bone. He pressed another kiss to the hollow of my neck and a deliciously warm shivered cascaded through me. I started to turn into him, but his hands went to my hips and stopped me.

"If you do that, we'll never get to the damn ball."

"I'm not the one prancing around half-naked and dropping kisses all over the place."

He chuckled again, his gaze adoring me as his large fingers fumbled with the tiny pearl buttons.

This was such a rare, perfect moment, I held onto it tight. I locked it into my heart. And I carried that feeling with me when we climbed the steps to the pillared porch of the Capra Foundation Building a short while later.

Music filtered through from the massive arched oak doors that were flung wide open.

Roman's hand rested on the small of my back, his reassuring presence pressed close to me. We paused on the threshold, where a guard stood sentry with a scanner to read Roman's citizen tattoo. As if anyone would ever dare to gatecrash this prestigious event.

A double line of guards stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the vestibule, all the way from the outer doors to the inner sanctuary of the main hall. They were dressed in their ceremonial uniform. Gray pants with the Eastern Coalition colors striped down the outer seam. Red, black and gold. The stiff-collared tunics were a deeper gray, also with the colored stripes along the sleeves and down the central lapels.

A man exchanged our coats for a ticket, then we had to walk through the standing parade to reach the hall. It was all very grand and impressive, no doubt designed to inspire awe at the Eastern Coalition's magnificence and feverish loyalty to their cause.

Their cause.

That hit me in the chest.

For the first eighteen years of my life, it had been our cause. The Eastern Coalition had been like a grumpy old grandfather, mine to grumble about, my burden to bear. I was part of the good and the bad.

When I'd fumed over what Capra had taken from us, Geneva had corrected me. Not Capra, she'd said. The council.

I needed to remember that. The council was a group of mere men. Their views could be reformed. They could be replaced.

But Capra was my home, my family, my friends. The Eastern Coalition was a manifestation of the future of mankind.

I couldn't give up on them.

I wouldn't.

The hall had been transformed for the ball. Voluminous swathes of material hung from the ceiling along the sides, bold banners in red, black and gold. Even the soft lighting appeared gold.

At the far end, a string quartet played a haunting tune that spilled across the hall.

The seating was informal, only a handful of cozy tables and chairs backed against the wall for the dozen or more couples mingling around the edges of the dancefloor or gathered by the buffet table. No one was dancing yet, but apparently the aim was to keep people on their feet with only the brief, occasional respite.

We spotted a friendly group and steered ourselves in that direction. Along the way, Roman snagged two glasses of sparkling wine from a server's tray and passed one to me.

Daniel grinned when he saw us approach, and opened up the circle so we could slot in around them. Brenda looked stunning in a red and gold embroidered dress with a stiff cuff collaring the back of her neck. Her hair was done up in an elaborate style and strands of diamond tears dripped from her earlobes.

"You never came around to choose a dress," she reprimanded lightly, "but I see you found something after all."

"My mother cut up an old dress of hers," I said.

"Wow." Her gaze travelled up and down me, admiring my mother's handiwork instead of shooting off some snarky comment.

For a moment, she reminded me of the old Brenda, the girl I'd once considered a friend—a good friend.

"My mother would simply have cut up Mr. Burnier," Lisa inserted dryly, "if he'd refused to come through for us in a fashion emergency."

She was probably being serious, but laughter still burst from me. Brenda giggled as well, and after a dramatic eye roll, Lisa's lips twitched.

Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad after all.

Roman squeezed my hand, then left my side to chat with Daniel and Lisa's husband, Brian.

We picked at the finger foods and sipped on our wine, and the conversation inevitably turned to who was wearing what.

Brenda brought us the latest scandal from Mr. Burnier's changing rooms. "Mrs. Crickle and Mrs. Davenport were fighting over the last length of brushed maroon velvet. They went on and on, and it actually turned into a tug-of-war, right there on the shop floor. Mr. Burnier finally had enough. He stepped in with his shears and cut straight through the middle. He gave them each one half, which wasn't large enough to do anything with, and he charged them for it."

It felt a little odd to be standing here, enjoying such mindless conversation after the last few weeks I'd had, but I was enjoying it—maybe because of the last few weeks I'd had.

The music changed. A few older couples led into a Waltz on the dancefloor. After a minute, more couples joined them.

Daniel led Brenda off, and it wasn't long before Brian swooped Lisa away, as well.

Roman swept an arm around my waist and pulled me into him, my back to his chest. His voice was a warm breath near my ear as he said, "I don't dance."

"I never imagined you did," I said softly. He'd grown up in The Smoke. When the Capra boys had been learning dance moves for the graduation balls, Roman had been wandering the wilds, searching for Amelia and waiting for things to cool down after he'd killed the man who'd sold her.

I arched my neck backwards to look up at him. "I'm exactly where I want to be, in your arms."

He dropped a kiss on my forehead. "I love you."

One day, I wouldn't melt each and every time he said that in his low, husky baritone, but not anytime soon. I rested my head back against his chest, thoroughly content to stand here on the sidelines, wrapped in his body and his intoxicatingly male scent.

I saw Julian wasn't dancing, either. He was seated at one of the small tables with Miriam. They each had an arm draped on the table between them, and his hand covered hers. As if he had the right to that intimacy, the right to still love her.

My gaze snapped away to skim over the dancing couples, and landed on Mrs. Bickens gliding in her husband's arms. Snowy brows and sideburns dominated his face. He was built like a brickhouse, his body bulging against his ceremonial uniform.

She was refined elegance.

General Bickens was head of the Guard.

Mrs. Bickens, as I'd so recently discovered, obviously held an elevated position in the Sisterhood.

That right there, the two of them, was a parody of mind-boggling proportions, a parody in motion on the dancefloor.

And the sight of them, the reminder that Mrs. Bickens was married to the head of the Guard, rooted my commitment to the decision I'd made. The Sisters of Capra were everywhere, embedded into the highest ranks of our society. I hadn't heard from Rose or Geneva again, but they knew what had to be done with the information I'd handed them. And they had the means, the powerful connections, to do it right.

A crackling sound reverberated from the hall's speakers. The music continued, and the dancing couples kept spinning, then a long, persistent beep jarred the eloquent flow of the room. The music faltered and the confused dancers came to a staggered halt.

The large screen on the wall behind the string quartet flickered to life. I assumed the interruption was a planned screening, some pre-recorded celebration video, although the segue could have been more elegant.

A moment later, my face filled the screen. Everything inside me went absolutely still. There was no thought, no breath, no heartbeat.

Roman's arms around me firmed, and brought me back. I blinked. And breathed. My heartbeat returned with a vengeance, screaming through my blood as the screening zoomed out to show more—of me—wearing the off-pink hoodie I'd worn that day, and sitting in that chair with my back to the bland, white wall.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Then I started talking treason.

"I've been outside the walls." My eyes stared forward, narrowed on Geneva. The video camera must have been directly behind her, but where? How could anything hide between those white, seamless walls?

"I've seen across the bridge to the Outerlands," I continued in that pronounced, defensive voice. "It isn't dead. It isn't empty. I've been to The Smoke."

The video cut from there in a smooth transition to, "The Eastern Coalition has a medical process that allows them to override natural gender selection. They've found a way to improve the odds of a baby being born female. They use it in The Smoke. That's why there are so many women there. As many women as there are men, if not more."

"We have to go," Roman said in a low, urgent voice near my ear, his arms falling away from me as he turned.

He grabbed my hand, dragging me along until my own reaction caught up to the urgency and matched his hurried pace.

My body was wracked with tension.

My nerves were taut strings on a violin, each step toward the exit winding them tighter and tighter.

"It's all lies," my voice rang out from behind, the video transitioning smoothly again to cut and skip as it wanted. As Geneva wanted. "Our eggs don't start off rotten."

My feet itched to tear through the mingling guests like a whirlwind, but I understood why we were walking fast and not running. We didn't want to draw attention from the scandalous screening to us. Some gazes did snap to us as we snaked a path between the guests, but they didn't seem inclined to act.

Then it happened.

"Seize them!" a loud voice bellowed.

We broke into a sprint, Roman's grip locking my palm to his. I shot a glance over my shoulder, I had to, and I saw General Bickens stomping from the dancefloor, his hand raised at us, the look on his face apoplectic.

I turned forward as we dashed through the arched doorway, and slammed up against a wall of guards. They seemed as surprised by the collision as us. What the hell? There weren't as many as there had been in the standing parade, but the half dozen converging on the doorway were enough to block us. They didn't seem to know what to do with us, though. Or maybe they hadn't yet realized that the "Seize them," was meant for us.

Roman took advantage of the confusion. We couldn't go through them, so he pulled me left into a sprint down a side passage leading off from the vestibule. It took a few seconds, and another, "Seize them!" before the stampede of boots pounded the wooden floorboards behind us.

I didn't look.

We sped around a corner, and my ankle nearly turned out from under me.

"Wait!" I snatched my hand from Roman's grip and kicked off my strapless heels. They weren't spikes, but no heels were made for running.

We raced down a corridor of closed doors. I'd never been this deep into the building, but my father worked from here, and I knew it housed a warren of council and departmental offices.

"There's the back entrance," Roman whisper-shouted and up ahead, at the end of the long corridor, I saw the fire door with its panic bar and glowing Exit sign.

We were halfway there when our escape fell apart. The fire door opened and four guards streamed in. The guards at our back had finally rounded the corner at the other end of the passage. We were trapped.

Roman tried the door handle of the nearest office. Locked. He tried the next one. Locked. He tried the next one, and it opened. We slipped inside and he slammed the door closed behind us.

My breaths were coming fast, more from the tension pinching my lungs than the physical exertion.

We were in a boardroom, the large table filling most of the space. The wall directly across from the door was banked with tall windows.

A fist hammered on the door.

"Go," Roman barked, his eyes prodding at the windows. "Get to the train tunnel. The access point. The streets are busy tonight. You should be okay."

I knew what he was doing, and that wasn't happening. His hands were wrapped around the door knob, and he was putting his weight against the door, to hold back the guards.

"I'll be right behind you," he promised, then ruined it with, "Give me two hours. If I'm not there, find another way to The Smoke. I've heard of people getting out on the supply train. It can be done."

More pounding on the door.

His jaw strained with the effort of locking the knob with his bare hands, twisting it against the direction that someone on the other side was fighting for.

"No!" I cast my mind around frantically. The door had a key hole, but there was no key in the hole. The handle was a knob, so hooking one of the boardroom chairs beneath it wasn't an option.

"Georga."

"I'm not leaving you here."

The door shuddered, but he managed to hold onto it.

"It's not me they want," he ground through his teeth.

I hesitated. But he was right. Of course he was. I was the problem, not Roman. If they broke through that door while I was here, he would fight to give me more time.

I nodded and darted around the table. The windows were high. The ledge started at my shoulders. I grabbed onto the ledge, thinking to jump and somehow pull myself up the rest of the way. I bounced up off my toes, and slid back to the floor. I didn't have the arm strength at this awkward angle.

A thudding noise crashed through the room. My gaze flashed to Roman, my heart thundering between my ears. They'd burst the door open. Roman hadn't gone sprawling, but he had been shunted aside.

He was quick though, regained his balance, and greeted the first guard through the doorway with a strike to the throat. The guard spluttered and choked.

My eyes swept over the boardroom table and hitched.

The chairs!

Mentally kicking myself for the lost time, I dragged the nearest chair over to the wall.

I needed to think faster, and smarter, but I couldn't stop myself from checking on Roman, again and again, as I hiked my skirts up and scrabbled onto the chair.

Two guards shoved the spluttering man out the way and barged into the room.

Roman was there with a roundhouse kick to one, and some kind of elbow jab to the other. They went staggering back from him with grunts, and he went after the one with a high kick to the chest. That guard went down, and stayed down. The other one was reaching for his Taser and more guards were coming through the doorway.

I hefted myself up onto the ledge, throwing another glance over my shoulder—to see a guard swing his baton. Roman evaded and dropped low, kicking the man's legs out from under him, but the other one, the one with the Taser, fired and two probes shot out. One probe went wide. The other barb snagged Roman's arm. He ripped it out, but the distraction cost him a punch to the side of the head from another guard.

He recovered and attacked with a series of lightning quick hand jabs and punches at the three men that converged on him. His chin knocked backward as one landed an uppercut. He rattled his head and hit out with a side-kick one way, a throat punch to his other side.

My heart raced, a thunderous roar beating inside my chest. I was desperate to go to him, to help, do something, anything, but I knew Roman. Removing myself from the equation was the only way this would end.

A guard had his eyes on me as I fumbled with the window latch, my fingers were shaking uncontrollably, and he was sneaking around the edges of the fighting.

Roman noticed and went after him, grabbing a handful of tunic and slamming the man on the table.

I had the window open now and I slipped through.

A guttural cry of raw pain pulled my gaze back.

Roman was caught in a rigid spasm, probes hanging from the back of his left shoulder. The guard kept his finger on the trigger, kept the flow going, kept sending however many volts of energy that damn Taser discharged straight into Roman's vibrating body.

Another guard swung his baton at Roman's back, low, by his kidneys, and Roman toppled forward over the table. And yet another guard came at him with a pointed Taser, and another raised his baton into a high swing, murder in his eyes—and no!

"No!" I screamed, stepping back through the window. "Stop! Or I'll jump. I will jump. I'll disappear into the night and you will never catch me."

They froze in action, only their eyes turning on me, and then they seemed to register—thank God, they seemed to remember their mission. Either the Taser ran out of charge, or the guard pulled his finger off the trigger. I didn't care. Roman's body stopped vibrating. The raised baton was lowered to the infuriated man's side.

Three other guards were already on the move, storming around the table to get to me, and it was okay, it was okay, they could have me.

I was shaking like a leaf as I stood there on the ledge, hanging onto the framework, tears stinging my eyes as my gaze rooted on Roman, waiting for him to roll off the table and onto his feet, waiting for him to move, waiting…and then he stirred with a weak, dry cough, and I could breathe again.