The Gender War (The Gender Game #4) by Bella Forrest (the beginning after the end read novel .TXT) 📕

looked down as arms encircled my waist, and felt the press of a familiar feminine body against my back, a soft cheek resting against my shoulder.

My precious Violet. I tried to shake her off, muttering something even I couldn’t understand, but she persisted. Eventually I gave in, my chest heaving from exertion. I knelt, and she lowered herself with me. She held me for a long time—long enough for the rage that was searing through me to settle down, just a little, into a long, flat ocean of sadness. I felt my muscles un-clenching, the robotic determination fading.

Violet didn’t say anything, just let me grieve for those eight unknown men and women, killed by Ashabee’s prejudice. If I had been faster, or paid more attention, I would have been able to stop him. But it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t…

After a while, I felt my control returning. I pulled away from Violet, and she let me go, her eyes brimming with empathy. I couldn’t find anything to say, so I cupped her cheek, pleased when she pressed into my caress, and then slowly climbed to my feet, using the shovel to help me up.

She climbed up too, taking the hand I offered and pulling herself up, and then picked up her own shovel from the grass next to the shallow hole I was working on. I stared, surprised to see it, but she didn’t seem to notice. In spite of her injured hand, she just pushed the shovel into the ground and withdrew a mound of black earth, tossing it onto the pile.

I stood there for a long moment, grateful, now, that she wasn’t letting me do this alone. Then I dug in as well, aware that the dead had been watching the entire time, hoping that I could do them justice, if just in this one small thing.

23

Violet

I sat in the dark security room, staring at the monitors. Viggo and I had finished burying the dead just as the sun began to rise. I knew this had hit him hard, because he hadn’t put up a fight at all when I had encouraged him to have a shower. Nor did he argue when I told him to get some rest while I covered the rest of the watch. I sat with him a while, my left hand holding his, until he finally succumbed to sleep. I’d been close to dozing off, too, but the horror of the night didn’t change the fact that somebody needed to watch those monitors… to prevent something like this from happening again.

It hurt seeing him like that, my brave and noble Viggo. I also knew that nothing I could say would reach him right now. He was probably winding his rage and sadness into knots inside his head, and I knew that feeling. I knew that all I had to do was be there. Even if it took him time to recover his good cheer, I would be with him every step of the way, reminding him that he wasn’t responsible.

No. Ashabee was. I drummed my fingers over the desk, waiting for him to arrive. Well, waiting for him to be conscious again so he could arrive.

Viggo hadn’t seen it in his fury, but Jay had decked Ashabee as Viggo was rushing out. Not only had he hit him, he had hit him hard, his anger fueling him. It was what had delayed me in catching up with Viggo—I was worried Jay had killed the man. He’d been knocked out instantly, his body crashing backwards into a bookcase, taking out several shelves, the books falling down onto his unmoving form.

I was also certain that Jay would’ve killed him if Jeff and I hadn’t intervened. The young man was seething, his blue eyes tearing up, his face red with anger. I’d had to step between him and Ashabee’s unconscious form to stop him from continuing his attack, but it had barely worked. Even now, I was concerned.

Not that I blamed Jay. He had just been moments faster than me at delivering his punch. However, I didn’t want Ashabee’s death on his hands.

Or on Viggo’s, for that matter. Which was why I had let him sleep, choosing to deal with this alone. I didn’t feel the crushing fury that Viggo did—just a well of sadness that went down too far to even look for the bottom. Sadness and weariness. And a cold determination to make sure that justice was done.

So here I was, waiting, weighing the decision on behalf of all my companions, and wondering what I should do about it.

Someone knocked on the door, jolting me out of deep thought. “Ashabee has regained consciousness,” Henrik said quietly, walking through the door. “He’ll be down soon.”

I nodded in acknowledgement. “Do you have the list of refugees?” I asked.

It was Henrik’s turn to nod as he approached the desk, placing a piece of paper in front of me. I picked it up. I already knew that Alejandro and Cad weren’t on the list—I had helped Henrik in the interview process. But still, it didn’t stop me from wishing that somehow they had been overlooked, and their names would be here, coincidentally, far from their homes, among these random Patrians.

They weren’t, of course, and I set the paper down and looked at Henrik. “Any thoughts?” I asked. “About our new guests?”

Henrik opened his mouth, and then closed it, seeming to reconsider what he was about to say. I motioned for him to sit down, and he did, taking the time to collect his thoughts. After a moment, he looked up. “Nobody in the group seems to have ever been a warden, but they could be liars. Most of the group consists of dockworkers and laborers from in and around the warehouse district.”

“Well, it kind of makes sense, but then… why wouldn’t they seek shelter in town?” I asked. I had only interviewed people for general details—names, occupations, ages, etc. I