Kiera Cass - The Guard

“I know you’re fast and smart, but I was terrified,” I told her as we moved.

She put her mouth to my ear. “I lied to the officer.”

“What do you mean?” I whispered back.

“They did catch up with me, eventually.” I stared at her, wondering what was so bad that she didn’t want to confess it in front of the others. “They didn’t do anything, but this one girl saw me. She curtsied and ran off.”

Relief set in. Then confusion. “Curtsied?”

“I was surprised, too. She didn’t look angry or threatening at all. In fact, she just looked like a normal girl.” She paused a minute before adding, “She had books, lots of them.”

“That seems to happen a lot,” I told her. “No clue what they’re doing with them. My guess is kindling. I think it’s cold where they stay.”

It seemed more and more apparent that the rebels just wanted to ruin everything the palace had—its fine things, its walls, even its sense of safety—and taking the king’s prized possessions for the sake of having something to burn seemed like a big middle finger to the monarchy.

Had I not seen how cruel they could be firsthand, I would have found it funny.

The others were so close that we kept silent for the rest of the trip, but the walk felt much shorter with America in my arms. I wished it was longer. After today, I didn’t want her anywhere I couldn’t see her.

“The next few days might be busy for me, but I’ll try to come see you soon,” I whispered as the palace came into view. I’d have to give her back to them now.

She tilted in toward me. “Okay.”

“Take her to Doctor Ashlar, Leger, and you’re off duty. Good job today,” Markson said, slapping my back again.

The halls were still full of staff cleaning up from the first attack, and the nurses were so quick when we got to the hospital wing that I didn’t get to speak to America again. But as I laid her on the bed, looking at her tattered dress and sliced legs, I couldn’t help but think this was all my fault. When I traced the steps back to the very start, I knew that it was. I had to start making up for it.

America was sleeping when I crept into the hospital wing that night. She was cleaner, but her face still seemed worried, even at rest.

“Hey, Mer,” I whispered, rounding her bed. She didn’t stir. I didn’t dare sit, not even with the excuse of checking on the girl I rescued. I stood in the freshly pressed uniform I would only wear for the few minutes it took to deliver this message.

I reached out to touch her, but then pulled back. I looked into her sleeping face and spoke.

“I—I came to tell you I’m sorry. About today, I mean.” I sucked in a deep breath. “I should have run for you. I should have protected you. I didn’t, and you could have died.”

Her lips pursed and unpursed as she dreamed.

“Honestly, I’m sorry for a lot more than that,” I admitted. “I’m sorry I got mad in the tree house. I’m sorry I ever said to send in the stupid form. It’s just that I have this idea …” I swallowed. “I have this idea that maybe you were the only one I could make everything right for.

“I couldn’t save my dad. I couldn’t protect Jemmy. I can barely keep my family afloat, and I just thought that maybe I could give you a shot at a life that would be better than the one that I would have been able to give you. And I convinced myself that was the right way to love you.”

I watched her, wishing I had the nerve to confess this while she could argue back with me and tell me how wrong I’d been.

“I don’t know if I can undo it, Mer. I don’t know if we’ll ever be the same as we used to be. But I won’t stop trying. You’re it for me,” I said with a shrug. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to fight for.”

There was so much more to say, but I heard the door to the hospital wing open. Even in the dark, Maxon’s suit was impossible to miss. I started walking away, head down, trying to look like I was just on a round.

He didn’t acknowledge me, barely even noticed me as he moved to America’s bed. I watched him pull up a chair and settle in beside her.

I couldn’t help but be jealous. From that first day in her brother’s apartment—from the very moment I knew how I felt about America—I’d been forced to love her from afar. But Maxon could sit beside her, touch her hand, and the gap between their castes didn’t matter.

I paused by the door, watching. While the Selection had frayed the line between America and me, Maxon himself was a sharp edge, capable of cutting the string entirely if he got too close. But I couldn’t get a clear idea of just how near America was letting him.

All I could do was wait and give America the time she seemed to need. Really, we all needed it.

Time was the only thing that would settle this.