Page 43 of Silver Elite

“Is this a date?” The question pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. For a second, I hope he didn’t hear me over the sound of the rotors and rush of the wind at the open sides of the helicopter. But then he chuckles, and embarrassment warms my cheeks.

Cross glances over at me. “No.”

“Then why am I wearing a dress?”

“Did I ask you to wear a dress?”

I falter as I realize that no, actually, he didn’t. All he’d said was, We’re going off base. You don’t have to wear your uniform.

I smother a groan, but it slips out anyway. “Hellfucker. I made it into a date.”

“It’s okay, Dove. You wouldn’t be the first.”

He pats my arm in reassurance, and I glare at him.

My stomach suddenly flips as the helo banks hard to the left before straightening out. The late-afternoon sun is creeping toward the horizon line, bathing it in a haze of pinks and oranges. It’s beautiful. We’re flying somewhere over Ward S, and my head instinctively turns toward the west. My throat tightens with longing. For my ranch. My horse.

“You miss it,” Cross says, as if reading my mind.

“Yes.” Then I tear my gaze away.

I don’t know where he’s taking me, but I’m not complaining because it’s nice to get off the base for something other than a mission. It’s also nice when he reaches over and covers my hand with his. The pads of his fingers are rough as they stroke my knuckles.

I tip my head toward him. “What are you doing?”

“Touching your hand…Is that allowed?”

“I suppose.”

He seems to be fighting a smile as he turns his gaze toward the open door. Meanwhile, my heart is doing ridiculous things in my chest. Somersaults. Flips. An asinine dance.

I stare at his chiseled profile and bite my lip. There are so many things I want to say to him, but I force myself to stick to the facts.

You’re my enemy.

Your father hates me.

You would kill me if you knew who I was.

We could never have a future.

We will never be together.

I slide my hand out from under his and fold both of mine in my lap. I refuse to check what his expression is.

A vehicle waits for us on the tarmac after we land. It’s got an open top, and once we’re on the road, the wind whips through my hair, sending it blowing behind me. I slip the elastic off my wrist so I can tie my hair back, but Cross says, “No. Leave it down.”

And for some reason, I do.

I wonder if this is what normal people feel like. The ones who aren’t always peering over their shoulders, the ones who are happy with their lives, their job assignments, their quarters. The ones who have willingly submitted to the General’s way of life. Accepted every part of it—the checkpoints, the broadcasts, the rules. They’re all in for the greater good, and by surrendering to it, they take drives like this out in the country and allow themselves to enjoy it.

Cross parks in a wooded clearing and announces we need to walk the rest of the way, but when I ask where we’re going, he refuses to share. Just says to trust him and it’ll be worth it.

Trust.

Such a big word to be throwing around. Our talk in bed last week about it still lingers in my mind. On some level, I do trust him. Maybe not with my secrets, but I certainly trust him with my body. I trust that he would protect me in the field the way he would any other Elite operative.

Considering his last name is Redden, that’s a lot more trust than I ever believed myself capable of giving to him.

I’m wearing sandals with my dress, not exactly hiking shoes, so I only make it about ten minutes before I’m grumbling with irritation and cursing every time a twig stabs me in the toe.

Cross stops walking and grins. “Come here.”

He gestures to his back, and the next thing I know, I’ve got my legs wrapped around his waist, my arms looped around his shoulders, and we’re laughing as he carries me through the woods. It’s the youngest I’ve felt my entire life. Even as a child, I felt like an adult. I hate that Cross Redden, of all people, brings out this side of me.

“I could get used to this,” I tease in his ear. “You carrying me around.”

“Don’t tell anyone. It will ruin my manly reputation.”

“Nah, it’ll just make the women swoon harder.”

“Probably,” he says arrogantly, and I punch his shoulder. “All right. I’m going to need you to walk the rest of the way. Think you can manage?”

“I’ll do my best.”

We trek through the trees and brush until we reach a rocky cliff, looming above us. Holes and cracks in the rock make for great footholds, but there’s no way I’m climbing this.

“I can’t scale that in these shoes.”

“Don’t worry. We’re not going up.” Cross points to the ground. “We’re going down.”

That’s when I see the hole near the base of the cliff.

I glare at him. “Did you bring me here to kill me?”

He snickers. “No. There are a lot easier ways to kill you. Bullet in the head. Smother you in your sleep.”

“You’re so romantic.”

That gets me another laugh. “I like this.”

“What?”

“This less bitchy side of you.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like the bitchy side.”

“I love it. But this is nice, too.” He wipes his palms on the front of his camo pants. “Come on. I promise you, you’re gonna want to see what’s down there.”

“All right, let’s go.”

He blinks. “That didn’t take much convincing.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t require a lot of convincing to do stupid things. Reckless is my middle name.”

“Do you have one of those?” he asks.

“What?”

“A middle name.”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I only knew my first name when Uncle Jim found me on the side of the road.”

Cross hesitates, eyeing me as if he wants to ask a hundred more questions. Instead, he crouches in front of the shadowy crevice and starts to ease himself down. His dark head disappears over the edge, his fingers the only visible part of him left. He hangs for a moment and then he’s gone. I hear a soft thud as he lands below.

I peek into the opening to find his beautiful face peering back at me, framed by shadows. “You know, I could just walk away right now…” I call toward him. “Leave you here to die.”

“You know,” he mimics, “I could climb right back up.”

“Let me have my fantasies, please.”

“You coming or what?”

I kneel, then twist around so I can slide my body along the edge of the craggy wall. I move lower, until my legs are dangling and I’m fully hanging.

Cross’s muffled voice drawls up at me.

“Yes. Stay just like that. I’m enjoying the view.”

“Fuck off.”

I make the six-foot drop, my sandals landing with a thud on the rocky floor. I look around to examine what appears to be a cave system, various gaping openings in all directions, while Cross presses his finger to the source around his wrist. A moment later, a torch illuminates our path.

“Where are we going?” I ask as he takes the lead.

“You’ll see. Just stay close and watch your footing. I really should have told you to wear boots.”

“I think you did this on purpose. You want me to be helpless.”

“There is nothing helpless about you, Wren.”

My heart flips. He rarely calls me by my name, and when he does, it sends ribbons of warmth unfurling through me.

As we descend deeper into the cave, his source shuts off abruptly, and the darkness envelops me like a shroud, filling the narrow passageway with an unnerving sense of isolation. The only sound is the steady drip of water echoing off the walls.

“Sorry.” His torch comes to life again, but the darkness hadn’t bothered me. I’m at home in the dark.

Anyone else might have felt claustrophobic as the twists and turns get narrower, but I stay on Cross’s heels, driven by curiosity. After what feels like an eternity of winding tunnels and precarious ledges, we finally reach our destination, and when we emerge into the cavernous chamber, I gasp at the sight that greets me.

“What is this?”

I sweep my gaze over the cave walls, stunned. The sea of flowers takes my breath away. They’re everywhere. Vibrant blooms sprouting from every crack and crevice, their petals unfurling in a riot of colors that paint the cave in a kaleidoscope of hues. And they’re glowing. An ethereal radiance casts the chamber in iridescent light. It’s extraordinary.

“How are they growing in the dark?” I demand, spinning to face Cross. “And how are they glowing? Are they creating their own light?”

“They thrive in the darkness. Some sort of mutation,” he explains. “And they’re not glowing. It’s the daggerstone.”

My brow wrinkles. “What?”

He beckons me closer. When he plucks one of the flowers, I realize it’s growing between cracks not of rock, but of gemstone. Daggerstone. I remember learning in school how these cave systems began to get discovered about fifty years after the Last War. So many things died from the bombing, the radiation, and never grew back. In the Blacklands, I saw hybrid plants that never existed before the war. Bears with horns. Trees whose roots grew up and outward, rather than into the ground. Daggerstone is one of those anomalies. Cavers stumbled upon entire walls of these gemstones shaped like gnarled daggers, long and pointed and shimmering like white fireflies. Daggerstone is almost always white, although I did see someone with a blue daggerstone pendant once. Several shades darker than cobalt.

More daggerstone hangs from the ceiling like crystal chandeliers, their icy tendrils sparkling in the light. Across the cavern is a pool of water that glimmers like liquid silver, like Modified veins, reflecting the dazzling array of colors that dance across the walls.

“This is incredible.”

I reach out to touch a delicate blossom. The petals are soft beneath my fingertips as I breathe in the sweet scent. It’s like the cave itself is alive. A living, breathing entity that pulses with the heartbeat of the earth.

A sense of awe tightens my throat.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s so beautiful.”

I turn to find Cross watching me.

“What?”

“I thought you might like it. I could have bought you synthetic flowers. A nice little bouquet in a vase of water. But that’s not you.” He gestures to the flowers that are practically exploding from the cave walls. “This is you. Wild. Mysterious.”

I laugh. Yet part of me is melting.

This is the most romantic thing a man has ever done for me.

I close the short distance between us. “I don’t need flowers.”

“I know you don’t. You have no expectations, and you always keep people at arm’s length. But that only makes me want to impress you.”

It’s uniquely vulnerable coming from Cross. And it’s becoming evident that this guy is not at all what I thought he was. He’s rough, but he’s also tender. He’s lethal, but he has compassion, even if he claims it’s a weakness.

“You want to impress me?”

“Yes.” His voice is thick.

He tugs me toward him, and his lips are millimeters from mine when his wrist vibrates, causing us to jump apart.

“Sorry,” he says, glancing down at his source. “Alert.” A frown instantly puckers his brow. “Give me a second.”

He walks several feet away, and I watch as he taps his ear. He’s rarely without an earpiece, I’ve noticed. I don’t think I’ve even seen him take it out at night when he’s sleeping. When he sleeps. He rarely does that, either.

“Shit,” I hear him swear. “I’ll be right there.”

I frown at him when he rejoins me. “Is everything okay?”

Cross shakes his head, moving toward the entrance of the cavern. “We need to go.”

“What happened? Where are we going?”

“I have to go see my mother.”

—

He won’t drop me back at base. He says it’s an emergency, and so I’m strapped in the helo again, heading for his Sanctum Point estate.

The General’s house.

I feel queasy, but the sensation is accompanied by a burst of anticipation. This is the kind of access the network can only dream of. And there’s only a tiny twinge of guilt as I reach out to Adrienne in the car at the airfield. It feels wrong sitting beside Cross and using telepathy to report to his enemy, but I silence my conscience and capitalize on the moment.

“I’m about to go to the General’s mansion.”

“What?” I can hear her excitement. “How?”

“I’m with Cross.”

“And to think we didn’t want you at first.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

I’m still bitter that they left me to rot for three weeks. If Betima wasn’t killed and there’d been no hole to fill, they’d probably still be ignoring my SOSs.

“I assume I’m not going to be able to walk around freely, but…”

“Do what you can. Any intel is an asset. Anything you think might be important.”

“And if he’s there?”

“Assassinate him.”

“What?”

“Joking. That won’t accomplish anything.”

“It won’t?”

“A dead General doesn’t dismantle the system. If you want to enact change, you need to do more than just take out the leader. You need to deprogram the minds. Root out the ideology.”

I wonder if she recognizes the irony. If she realizes she’s repeating the same things General Redden says during his broadcasts. Ideas are weeds. Don’t let them spread. Although I suppose Adrienne’s take has a slight variation. She doesn’t want to simply pull the weeds. She wants to plant something new in their place. I suppose I can admire that.

“We’re here,” Cross says.

“I have to go. I’ll report afterward.”

The General’s house is not what I expect. You hear mansion and estate and envision turrets and gables and beautiful gardens. But not this house. The sleek mansion looms like a monolithic fortress, all sharp angles and sterile lines. The exterior is a sea of glass and concrete. It doesn’t feel at all warm, just cold and hostile.

I give Cross a wary look. “This is where you grew up?”

He nods.

It’s a far cry from my ranch house, and I feel a pang of sympathy for him. I knew the General was an austere man, but this is a mausoleum.

We walk inside, where I continue to be struck by the oppressive atmosphere. The ceilings are higher than you’d think from the outside, but that’s the only redeeming feature about this place.

Cross leads me into a living room. It’s a massive space, but the furnishings are sparse and minimalist. No plush couches or cozy armchairs. No soft rugs or knit throws. Instead, everything feels impersonal. Even the art on the walls is cold and detached. Muted colors and shapes that offer zero insight into the personality or tastes of the house’s inhabitants.

I expect staff to come out and greet us. This is the General of the Continent, after all. He should be living a life of luxury, waited on hand and foot, yet the house is as silent as the mausoleum it resembles.

“Is nobody else here? Housekeeper? Butler?”

Cross shakes his head. “The General doesn’t allow anyone to freely roam the house. Staff is allowed in only when his guards are here to supervise.”

“Sounds like a prison.”

“It is,” he says simply. “If you don’t mind waiting here…” His forehead creases with reluctance, as if this is the last thing he wants to be doing right now. “I need to go up to see her.”

“Sure.”

Leaving me alone is a huge sign of trust.

Or so I think.

Once he disappears up a staircase with a metal-and-glass railing, it doesn’t take long to realize there’s nothing to be gleaned from this place. No true intel to be gained. The kitchen looks as if no one’s ever cooked a meal in there. It’s utterly pristine, the counters bare. I wander through the first floor, and while I’m sure cameras are capturing my every move, I don’t care all that much. The curiosity has taken hold.

The more I wander, the bigger the glimpse into Cross’s life. And it’s really sad. It’s really cold. Every door I come across is closed and requires a fingerprint scan to enter. Every handle I push buzzes to indicate there’s no access. I find myself at another staircase on the other end of the house. After a moment of hesitation, I take the first step.

I hate everything about this place. It’s like every inch of it has been carefully curated to convey a sense of detachment and isolation. To be honest, I think Roe dodged a bullet by not growing up here.

Upstairs are two wings, and I walk in the direction of the staircase Cross took. Some of the doors in this wing are open. I peek in and see a bedroom, then another one, and another one. Nothing is out of place. Neatly made beds. Modern furnishings. I wonder which room was Cross’s. Travis’s. Roe’s when he came to visit. There are no personal items to be found anywhere. No photographs or mementos to offer a window into the General’s life or his family’s. I’m walking through a hollow shell of concrete and glass.

When I hear a low murmur somewhere ahead of me, I follow the sound. The worst that will happen is he’ll yell at me. Order me to get out. But I’m too curious to avoid a scolding. Besides, he should know me better by now. Of course I’m not going to stay put and wait for him. Not after he drops a cryptic I have to see my mother and then leaves me to fend for myself in his house.

I follow his voice to a tall archway with a set of slate-gray doors. Peering through them, I find the one room in this mansion that has any sort of character.

It’s luxurious, the walls painted a pale blue rather than the whites and grays of the rest of the house. In one corner is a cozy sitting area with plush armchairs and a white chaise longue. In the center, a huge four-poster bed, its towering frame draped in billowing white silk. The bedspread is a vibrant shade of royal blue, and both nightstands display porcelain vases overflowing with red flowers.

I venture deeper and realize the room is L-shaped. Around the corner is another sitting area, with double doors opening to a stone terrace, and a wall of windows overlooking the manicured gardens, still green despite the winter chill. I read that the plants in this area used to die when winter came, that the trees lost their leaves, the soil turned to frost. But it’s been decades since the Continent experienced those kinds of temperatures.

A woman stands at the windows, her back to me. She’s clad in a white shirt and a flowing blue skirt that reaches her ankles. Long dark hair cascades down her back.

Cross is beside her, his voice laced with frustration. “You have to eat. You can’t do this again.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Mom. We’re not doing this again. I don’t want to hook you up with tubes again. Please.”

As if sensing my presence, his head swivels toward me.

“Fuck’s sake, Wren. I told you to wait downstairs.”

“I’m sorry. I just…” I trail off. There are no excuses. I was being nosy.

His mother doesn’t turn at the sound of my voice. Doesn’t seem to care there’s a stranger in her bedroom.

Frowning, I edge closer.

“Wren. Go downstairs.” He sounds tired.

“Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not.”

“How can I help?”

“You can’t.”

“Cross—”

The woman spins around so fast I jump in surprise. A pair of wide-set blue eyes meet mine with an empty stare that sends a shiver skittering down my spine. The complete absence of emotion is unsettling as hell.

But it doesn’t remain that way. For a moment, I can tell she’s registering my presence, because confusion etches into her face. Then she blinks and shakes her head, and her gaze shifts from confused to vacant. Back and forth. Confused. Blink. Vacant. Blink. As if her brain is struggling to keep her present.

Unease churns in the pit of my stomach. I’ve seen that expression before. Those same erratic blinks.

Either I’m completely crazy, or Cross’s mother is Modified.