Masked (30 page)

The realism that Bridgette probably hated him now made him want to sink back into unconsciousness and never wake up. What kind of choice did he really have now? Stay with Ludwig, knowing that perhaps the trust would never be the same between them, and knowing that Bridgette was out there, away from him. Living every day like he was a robot, going through the motions, working his way to the day he finally left this world for good.

Or leave, and try to find Bridgette only to have her turn him away. Then he would have ruined things with Ludwig. He knew for a fact if he left, Ludwig would never welcome him back. He’d be completely alone in this world – again.

Maybe that was the right choice, he thought. The only choice. He’d spent years alone on the streets, and perhaps that was how things were meant to be. He knew two things for sure; one was that he couldn’t stay here, no matter what he told himself. His eyes were too open now to how messed up his life was. He couldn’t stand by anymore, helping Ludwig rule people, knowing that two of those people he was set on destroying meant more to Roman than his own life. No, he couldn’t be a part of the New World order any longer. His time here had ended.

The other thing he knew for sure was that he had fallen in love with Bridgette. And because of that, he knew he couldn’t go to her and make her life any harder. Seeing him would only make things worse for her, knowing that he was a cold blooded killer. Not that she hadn’t known before, but now it was personal.

His life had come to a crossroads of sorts, three very different paths set out before him. He knew which one made the most sense, even though it would hurt him the most.

“We’ve lost two more,” John said, walking into his room.

Douglas looked up from his map, noting the blood stain on the man’s shirt. “That’s unfortunate.”

His soldier’s jaw tensed, obviously unhappy with his reply. Douglas stood up straighter, waiting for him to say whatever was on the tip of his tongue.

“That’s a total of fourteen guys in the last week,” he said, shifting from foot to foot under the General’s stare. “We can’t afford to keep losing men.”

“I’m aware,” Douglas replied.

“Perhaps we should lay low for a while, let Ludwig cool down before making any more moves.”

Douglas laughed, a cold, chilling laugh. “I wasn’t aware you were leading us now, John.”

“I didn’t mean to imply –”

“I’m sure. This is a war, may I remind you. There will always be casualties. Those who have died, died fighting for something they believed in. There is honor in that.”

“Tell that to their families.”

“I will tell that to their families when we’ve ridden this world of the vile disease that is Ludwig Tennebris and his New World army. I will tell that to them when their children can grow up in a world that isn’t falling down around them, buildings destroyed, streets filled with trash. When our cities are rebuilt and thriving, and people can go out and live their lives without fearing a leader bent on controlling them. I will tell them how their men fought to give them that future, and they should be proud, not sad.” His body vibrated with energy, a fine sheen of sweat dotted his brow.

John looked down in shame, his shoulders hunched under Douglas’s words.

“Our men might have died, but we did win one victory. Roman Adamson was shot, and from what my sources tell me, is no longer alive. No one has seen him since that night. We might not have taken down Ludwig himself, but we have rid him of his two most valuable players. The tide is slowly turning in our favour, John. Do not lose hope now.”

“You’re right, sir. I apologize.”

Doulas grunted. He was surrounded with weak minded idiots. Why could no one see how close they were to finishing this? He looked at the man before him coldly, wondering how many more were like him – sceptical, afraid.

“We might have lost men, but we can get some back,” he said. The map of the western ghetto lay out in front of him. Those women that were with McKay and his brothers could be no one else but the infamous Archers, the small rebel gang that had refused to align with him. He would find them, and he would make them see reason. And if not, he’d use different measures to ensure they saw things his way. He would make them into stronger, superior soldiers than they ever thought possible. “Tell the recruiters to get ready. It’s time for a reaping.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They got word of Roman’s absence a week later. Phoenix, the leader of the group the Archers, Bridgette was told, had gone out one day to return with the news a short while later. All eyes had gone to Bridgette when she had made the announcement.

As soon as the words hit, Bridgette had felt like the floor beneath her had opened up. A sinking feeling in her stomach came right before tears burned her eyes. Charlotte had appeared beside her instantly, her touch soothing against her back.

After that, Bridgette had retreated to her room to mourn the loss of someone who had come to mean more to her than she had ever expected. There was no funeral, as far as they knew, only a whisper through the streets of his disappearance. They all knew he was dead, however. Bridgette couldn’t help but wonder if he had bled out in the streets right where she had left him. He had died alone, a fact that only intensified the sickening feeling in her gut.

No one seemed particularly upset about the news, only aware what it would mean to Bridgette. She guessed that despite being confused herself about her feelings toward the late second in command of the New World army, everyone else seemed to have already decided on her attachment.

There was no denying it anymore, not after the way her heart felt like it was broken the more days that went by after hearing the news for the first time. It wasn’t getting any easier. The more time passed, the more Bridgette wished she had stayed with him. He might have killed her mother, a mother that had very likely known of their father’s actions against her children, but he was also the one who had taken care of her little sister. And her, she thought. He had gone out of his way to keep her safe while she was disguised as Weapon X.

Some might have described Roman Adamson as a heartless brute, but Bridgette knew better. He was so much more than how the world perceived him, and now he was gone. Charlotte said Ludwig wouldn’t hold a funeral, most likely so Roman’s death wouldn’t actually be confirmed. It would be bad for moral, she’d said. To have someone as powerful as Roman be taken down by the rebels would have only given people a sense of justice, and Ludwig wouldn’t want that.

The sky outside was its usual grey, an accurate representation of her mood. She needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air and some space away from all the people stuffed inside the house. No one went out now that Ludwig and Douglas had seen them all. An increased presence of soldiers appeared in the western ghetto, no doubt looking for them. Bridgette didn’t doubt her father’s men were also out there, searching. So far only Phoenix had ventured out, after a heated debate, only to return soon after with the fateful news. Since then, everyone had stayed indoors.

Bridgette couldn’t handle the feeling of suffocation within walls surrounding her anymore. She wanted to walk, run, anything other than just sitting there mourning night and day. She stared longingly out of her window, the empty, rundown streets outside no longer depressing, but appealing. How would she convince the rest of the group to let her leave? Any ideas eluded her. Both Charlotte and McKay were extremely stubborn and protective.

A shadowed figure appeared in the alley just diagonal from the house. Bridgette wouldn’t normally have noticed, except for the fact that literally no one ever came down this street. She wasn’t sure where they were, unfamiliar with the western ghetto, but for some reason this street was always deserted.

Her eyes locked on the figure, their face and head hidden beneath a large hood. Whoever it was, they were male, she could tell that much. They had wide shoulders beneath the black coat they wore, a completely masculine stature. She watched them closely, wondering what they were doing, but the figure only stood there, their face turned in the house’s direction.

Then their head lifted slightly, and Bridgette instantly sucked in a breath. She still couldn’t see who it was, but somehow she knew they were looking right at her through the window. She wanted to dive to the floor, but it was already too late. Whoever it was, they had seen her clearly behind the glass.

Bridgette stared back, a tingling sensation running up her spine as she locked eyes with the faceless intruder. Should she alert someone? Probably, she thought. This person was most likely a spy for her father, and now they would know where they were hiding. But she found she couldn’t move, frozen in some sort of spell. The only thing that broke it was when the man retreated back into the shadows, disappearing from her view.

She waited there. How long? She wasn’t sure. Bridgette sat in her window, waiting to see if he would appear again, perhaps with more men, but he never did. Nor did anyone else. When she finally went down for dinner, eating in silence as she had for the past few days, it was on the tip of her tongue to tell the others about what she had seen that afternoon and yet she kept it to herself. It was a stupid thing, that. Her better sense said that this would be important information to share, especially if the person had gone to get back-up. For whatever reason, though, she didn’t say a word, keeping the knowledge to herself as she lay down to sleep later that evening.

Her eyes closed, the stranger waiting on the other side to haunt her dreams.

She sat up, her heart racing. Darkness covered the tiny room, save for a sliver of bluish light from the moon. Bridgette breathed in deeply, trying to calm her rapid pulse. What had happened? Had she had a bad dream? She pulled at the covers, now pooled around her hips, covering her upper body against the chill in the room. Why was it so damn cold?

She slowly looked to the window, the swift beating of heart coming to a complete stop as all breath left her. The window was open. It was only a tiny gap, but she knew for a fact she never opened the window. Unease crept along her spine, the tiny hairs on her arms rising. Her eyes couldn’t discern anything in the dark, but her senses told her she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Who’s there?” she whispered in a shaky voice. There was no answer, only the usual creaks and groans of the old house settling in. Her imagination was getting away with her. Sliding her legs out from beneath the covers, Bridgette climbed out of bed, walking cautiously toward the window. The street was as it always was, empty. Nothing untoward to be seen. Bridgette pulled on the pane, clicking the latch back into place.

The wind howled by outside, rattling the frame. Could it have simply pushed the window open? Bridgette considered the old structure in front of her, and thought it might be possible. These buildings were so old and damaged, she was amazed anything still worked in them.

Deciding that must be it, she let out a soft breath, her pulse finally calming. She rubbed at her hands, the cold air finally seeping into her bones as she stood barefoot, dressed only in a thin, white nightgown Missy had lent her.

She had just started to turn when a hand clamped over her mouth. She sucked in a breath to scream, the scent of leather from the person’s gloves filling her nostrils, but it was useless. Any sound she made was muffled beneath the weight over her lips.

“Easy,” came the deep voice of her assailant. It was as though a switch had been flicked. One minute her body was rigid with fear, the next it was melting into the hard wall of muscle behind her. She knew that voice. She thought she’d never hear it again. He must of sensed her relax because his hold instantly eased, the hand over her mouth disappearing.

Bridgette spun around, her arms flinging up and around his neck. Roman’s arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her against him. He buried his face into her hair as she snuggled into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

One of his hands stroked her back as he shushed her. They stood like that for what felt like hours, until she leaned back to look at him. He was the stranger from earlier. She wondered if somehow her heart had recognized him immediately, even without having seen his face. She let one of her hands stroke across his jaw, the stubble scratching at her palms.

Without any words, for none mattered right then, she cupped the back of his head, letting his long strands glide like silk through her fingers, and pulled his mouth toward hers. She sensed him stiffen momentarily, before growling low in his throat. His arms tightened further as he took over the kiss, his tongue and lips branding her as his. The kiss was all-consuming, desperate, demanding, everything she could ever want in a kiss.

Her feet were lifted off the floor, something she only slightly registered at the back of her mind, her thoughts already too clouded by his touch, the feel of him against her. He walked them back to her bed, lowering her gently onto the mattress, his own body following. Bridgette sighed into his mouth at the weight of him above her.