Tracked by Jenny Martin Page B

barely be bothered to get up from the table and meet your new driver. You made it pretty clear we ruined your precious twelve-hand streak.”
    â€œI was tired. You were a mess.”
    â€œI was not a—”
    â€œLook. Just forget it.” He invades my personal space again, his smile coming back out of nowhere, this time lopsided and almost contrite. Almost. I hate the way it moves me. Already, he’s too good at slipping past my defenses. “I misunderstood you, you misjudged me,” he says. “Do-over on first impressions, all right?”
    Fair enough. For once, it doesn’t hurt to nod in agreement. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder, in quiet truce, when he reaches for his flex. After glancing at a text, he quickly stuffs it back into his pocket.
    â€œWho’s that? Some other girl waiting to look through your telescope?”
    Brazenly, he laughs. “No. If you must know, it was Hank. He asked if you’re okay. Should I text him you’re all right or would you rather I tell him to double the guard because you’re weeping in fear?”
    â€œI’m fine. Obviously, Your Highness.”
    He texts a quick reply, but makes a show of turning away, just so I can’t read it.
    â€œHonestly, Cash. How does someone like you end up friends with one of the guards?” I ask. “Or better yet, how does a prince end up in the Spire at all?”
    I’d meant it playfully, but by the look on his face, I can see the question cuts too deep.
    â€œI am a second son.” Suddenly, there’s a thickness in his voice, a sigh that he can’t let go. “After my father was . . . after he died, my older brother, Dak, didn’t much want me around.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter,” he says flatly. “Let’s just say I’m no longer needed in the palace. So here I am. Under Benroyal’s protection. Fifty-six million miles from home.”
    Protection. A kinder word for prison.
    â€œI’m Benroyal’s ward now,” he adds. “Have been since I was thirteen. I’ve apprenticed for three different crews. Cameras and feedcasters always in my face. Bodyguards forever breathing down my neck. Kept me out of the Spire, at least. But two weeks ago, Benroyal calls me back. Tells me he wants me here. Says he’s getting a new driver, and that we’re going to be a team.”
    â€œTwo weeks ago? But I was only arrested last—”
    â€œYou said as much yourself. You know that arrest was no coincidence. Benroyal gets what he wants. You and I are no exceptions.”
    I don’t answer. My mind turns over his words, but I can’t find a single angle that makes any sense. I get why Benroyal might want to keep Cash—the politics of holding him like some high-stakes marker—but I’m nothing. I’m not royalty. Just a street rat racer who doesn’t belong here, least of all on the 210th floor.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say at last. “That I’m the reason he made you come back—”
    â€œIt’s fine. It’s done. Besides, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to get into it with your friend.”
    â€œBear’s just a little protective, that’s all. Practically the only friend I’ve ever had.”
    â€œI see. Does your only friend know you’re here, with me?”
    I fight the stupid blush creeping over my whole body. Suddenly, I feel guilty, as if my two a.m. visit is some kind of terrible betrayal. “No. And he doesn’t need to find out either. He wouldn’t appreciate—”
    â€œNo worries. This will be our secret. I can pretend to hate you in front of him, if you like.” He edges closer—the whisper-light scent of balm leaf drifts my way, and all I can do is welcome the sweetness.
    Before I can answer, a sharp gust of wind blows my hair back, exposing my neck, the site of my fading