Golden Son by Pierce Brown Page B

Institute,whichcontainedEo’shairandnowliessecretedawaywithmyotherpersonaleffects.AllI needdoistwistitsheadanditbecomesthebomb.Theringtheygavemewillactivateit.
    Idrawawayfromfriends,fromVictra.She’saskedRoquewhatiswrongwithme.Iknowhewill
    answer that I’m like the wind, a creature of vagary and moods. Or something like that. He draws closertome,visitingmyroomswhenI’vegonetobed,attemptingtosparwithmeinthegymnasium.
    ButIcannotsmilewithhimorlistentohissoftvoicereadpoemsordiscussphilosophyorevenshare jokes.Ican’tletmyselffeelforhim,becauseIknowhewillsoonbedead.Itrytokillhiminmyheart beforeIkillhimintheflesh.
    CanIaddhimtothelistofthoseI’vealreadysenttothegrave?
    Ifinallyfindmyanswerthenightofthegala,whenTheodorabringsmemypressedclothingfrom thelaundry.Shedoesn’tsayanythingthatremindsmeofRoque.Doesn’tofferpithywisdom.Instead, shedoessomethingI’veneverseenfromher.Shemakesamistake.Whilesettingmyuniformdown
    onachair,sheknocksoveraglassofwineonanearbytable.Thewinesplashesoverthesleeveof mywhiteuniform.Whatflashesthroughhereyeschillsme—terror.Thesortadeermighthavewhen staringatanoncomingaircar.ShestreamsoutapologiesasthoughIwouldhitherifshedidnot.It takesheramomenttocomposeherself,fortheflashofpanictodissipate.Whenitdoes,shesitsthere onthefloor,dabbingattheuniforminsilence.
    I don’t know what to do. I stand there awkwardly for a moment before putting a hand on her shouldertotellherall’swell.That’swhenshebeginstocryingreatheavingsobsthatrackhersmall shoulders. She flinches from my touch and composes herself, telling me I’ll have to wear black insteadofwhite.Shemaynotknowwhatisabouttohappen,butshecanfeelitinme,intheair.
    Whiletheotherlancersplaywithoneanother,takemicroabrasionbaths,andconsultwithstyliststo preparethemselvesforthegala,Ilaceupmythickmilitarybootswithtremblingfingers.I’venever beengoodatsavingmyfriends.ItseemsIalwaysdragthemintoharm’sway.Sevro,Ibelieve,isstill alive only because of the distance between us. Fitchner was always afraid I’d kill his son. Said my life’s strand was so strong that it frayed all those around it. Now, seeing Theodora like that … it reminds me how fragile and complicated we really are. I don’t know why she cried. Some past trauma?Somesenseofwhat’stocome?Notknowingremindsmeofthedepthtothepeoplearound
    me.Iamspeechless,cold,butRoqueiswarm…hewouldhaveknownwhattosay.
    IknockonhisdoorseveralminutesbeforeAugustus’sentourageissettodepartthevillaforthe gala. There is no answer. I open the door and find my friend sitting on his bed, holding an ancient bookgentlybyitsspine.Hissmoothfeaturesrippleintoasmilewhenheseesitisme.
    “IthoughtyouwereTactuscometobegmetoshootsomestimsbeforethegala.Healwaysthinks
    because I’m reading, I’m not doing anything. There is no greater plague to an introvert than the extroverted.Especiallythatbeast.Hewillrunhimselfintothegroundoneofthesedays.”
    Iforceachuckle.“Atleasthe’ssincereabouthisvices.”
    “Have you met his brothers yet?” Roque asks. I shake my head. “They make Tactus look like a lamb.”
    “Goryhell,”Iswear.Ileanagainstthedoor ’sframe.“Thatbad?”
    “ThebrothersRath?Theyareterrible.Terriblyrich.Terriblytalented.Andtheirchiefvirtueliesin theirabilitytosin.They’reprodigiesatit.”Roquegrinsconspiratorially.“Ifyoubelieverumors—
    andIloverumors,remindmeofByronandWilde—Tactus’sbrothersopenedabrothelinAgeawhen
    theywerefourteen.Classyaffairtilltheystartedarrangingmore…customizedexperiences.”
    “Thenwhathappened?”
    “Ruineddaughters,sons.Insults.Duels.Deadheirs.Debt.Poison.”Heshrugs.“It’stheRathfamily.
    Whatdoyouexpectfromthoseblackguards?It’swhyeveryonewassosurprisedTactushadtakenup with an Iron Gold like you,” he clarifies. “You know his brothers mock him for being in your shadow.It’swhyhe’salwayssosarcastic.Hewantstobelikeyou,buthecan’t.Soheresortstohis usualdefenses.”Hefrowns.“SometimesIfeellikeyouunderstandallofusbetterthanweunderstand ourselves. Then other times,