Tracked by Jenny Martin Page A

have shined, but the picture won’t quite come into focus.
    Cash looks over my shoulder. “She looks . . .”
    â€œLike the ghost of someone else.” I shiver, remembering her voice in the dark. “Cash, does the word Sweetwater mean anything to you?”
    â€œNo. Should it?”
    â€œIt’s nothing . . . nonsense. Just something she said.”
    I follow him through the living room, which is almost a mirror image of mine, a negative snapshot of my cloud- colored space. But here, there are glass doors beyond the kitchen.
    I don’t wait for another invitation. I pull open the doors and step outside. A quicksilver band of Pallurium skims the top of a waist-high, transparent railing. Stepping between two lounge chairs, Cash and I stand against the railing and let the air gust over us. It’s like we’re perched on night’s open windowsill, breathing in the light of the stars.
    â€œHow’d I draw the short straw on apartments?” I ask.
    â€œI got here first?” He points at the huge black telescope at the end of the patio. “And I like being able to sneak a glimpse of home.”
    Prince Cashoman. I can’t forget that. He hides his accent well, but it’s so obvious that he’s Biseran. I glance at his eyes. Dark irises, charcoal with the telltale golden rim.
    He knows I was staring. “Some say it makes us less than you. Inferior. The first colonists from Earth called us Black-eyed Devils.”
    I can’t deny it, and I’ve heard even worse. This one difference in our genetic code makes the Biserans a target. Never mind that no Castran could see so well in the dark. This gift, the unique glimmer and shadow of their eyes—it makes them a people apart. Prince or no prince, it can’t be easy for Cash, to live here and deal with those kinds of assumptions. Especially when he headlines every gossip feed. Runaway Royal. Rogue. Gambler. That’s all they see in him. For the first time, I wonder if they’re wrong. “Some say I’m nothing but south side trash. Who cares what they say?”
    â€œI don’t. I’ve learned not to.” He walks over to the telescope. After adjusting the focus, he beckons me closer.
    I lean over the scope. The enhanced view is astounding, as good as any satellite image. I see twin orbs—the moon, lustrous and pale, floats next to Cyan-Bisera. Cash’s home planet is the brightest jewel in any diamond sky, and even through the lens, I can almost feel its silent pull. “It’s so . . . beautiful . . . all that blue water and green mountains and white shores . . . so—”
    â€œLush.”
    â€œExactly. I know Castra is more . . .” I almost say “civilized” but I know how elitist that would sound.  “. . . developed, but still—it’s so dry and ugly here. Why would anyone give up . . .”
    Silence. The trademark grin vanishes.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”
    â€œI know exactly what you meant. I’m a coward. A spoiled aristocrat who would rather play pacer than face my responsibilities to a ruined country. Bisera’s just a haven for greedy noblemen, dealers, and thieves, and I’m no better.”
    â€œI never said I—”
    â€œYou didn’t have to say anything. I saw it in your eyes the second we met. I guess I hoped you’d be different.”
    â€œI was completely blindsided that night, Cash. James hauls me into a black sap den and introduces me to a rusting prince. How was I supposed to look at you?”
    â€œMaybe like you weren’t predisposed to hating my guts. Like you didn’t assume I was a complete amateur, unworthy of two words. That might’ve been nice, actually.”
    â€œOh, but you were so warm and welcoming? You should talk, Your Highness. You’re the one who could