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

had left the more detailed interviews to Henrik, trusting his knowledge of Patrus and interrogation techniques. After all, he was a former warden.

“People wouldn’t take them in,” Henrik informed me. “There was a lot of confusion and rioting and looting. So… they left. Took what they could and high-tailed it out.”

I leaned back in the chair, considering his words. “How are they?”

“Scared, mostly. A few are angry, which could be good or bad, depending on how it’s channeled.”

I nodded slowly, understanding what he meant—anger could get people to fight, but it couldn’t guarantee that they would follow orders. “So how honest do you think we should be with them?”

Henrik’s mouth thinned, practically disappearing behind his graying beard. “If you’re asking about the king—I don’t think there is anything we can do to avoid it. The king won’t like being confined to his room. That one is like a spoiled child. I rarely say this, but he would’ve benefited from a good whooping.”

I smiled at him, amused by the image of King Maxen receiving a spanking. “How can we ensure that if one of them is a spy, they won’t try to escape after learning the truth?”

Henrik drummed his fingers over the arm of the chair, thinking about it. “Well, I think taking their names and making sure there is a description is a good start. Creating a worksheet or a chores list to make sure we know who is supposed to be where at what time is also a good start. But we’re running short on eyes to watch them, Violet—the seven of us can’t handle them, and the king, and Ashabee’s staff.”

I paused to consider the problem from all angles. “Tap the staff to watch the refugees,” I finally said, and Henrik smiled.

“You got there faster than I did—I must be getting old.”

I inclined my head to him, feeling mildly flattered, even through the weariness that held me and my dread of my next task. “No, it’s been a long night for us both. I’m just… I’m just too wired at the moment.”

Henrik’s gaze flicked to the gun sitting on the desk just to the left of me, and I followed it, taking in the black piece of metal that I might be using to end a man’s life in a few minutes. Not a random stranger, either—a person who had fed and sheltered us, though unwillingly. The father of a dear friend. A deeply prejudiced person, but a person who had smiled on the steps to see his daughter drive through the gate. And yet, I couldn’t see a way around making that decision.

Henrik looked at me, his blue eyes filled with empathy. “I don’t envy your position,” he said softly.

I held his gaze. “What would you do?” I asked.

Henrik looked away, his lips disappearing behind his beard in another grimace. “I can’t answer that—I’ve never been in this particular situation before.”

I waved my hand, leaning forward. “None of us have, Henrik. I could really use some help on this one.”

Henrik blinked slowly and turned back to me, his mouth reappearing in the form of a frown. “It’s kind of an issue of point of view—to us, Ashabee murdered innocent people. To him, he murdered trespassers who might have represented a threat to him or the king.”

“He just acted! He didn’t give us any time to make a decision!”

“It’s his home,” Henrik replied, and I fell silent.

“Do you think I should spare him?”

Henrik hesitated. “I think you should do what you think is best for the rest of us. We’re all following you and Viggo, Violet. You two have brought us all together here in this… weird little resistance movement. We trust you, so we’ll support whatever actions you take, no matter how final they are.” Henrik stood up then and offered me a kind smile before turning to go.

I exhaled. Henrik’s non-answers had not been the clear-cut advice I’d been hoping for, but they made me feel as though I really was capable of making this decision, and I appreciated it. I hadn’t intended this to fall on me, had never imagined myself as a disciplinarian. But Viggo had buried the dead, and I had called Jay off, wanting to spare the boy the pain of killing an unarmed man. He had been through too much already to add that particular stain on his soul.

I sat alone again for some time, wrestling with my problem.

I still hadn’t come up with a clear answer when Ashabee entered, his right eye, already a garish shade of purple, almost sealed shut. I stared at him—at his upturned nose and the defiant expression in his gaze.

“Sit down, Colin,” I said, gesturing to a chair. I’d chosen to use his first name. For one, I felt it would help convey to him the gravity of the situation. For two, I wanted to show him I was not afraid of him, and felt like his equal, if not superior. And for three, it would certainly throw him off balance. I wasn’t sure why—but my instincts were telling me to keep this man off balance.

It seemed to work, because after a considerable pause, he limped over and sat down, a flash of nervousness crossing his face. I stared at him for a long time—long enough for that nervousness to take root and grow. His eyes darted between me, the gun on the desk, the wall behind me, and the floor, then back to me again, over and over again.

I broke the silence first. “I’m having a hard time deciding what to do with you, Colin,” I said softly, keeping my voice low so that I knew he was hanging on every word—he would have to. I looked away, at the monitors, seeing the freshly dug graves holding eight people.

“To do with me?” Ashabee protested, his eyes wide in genuine alarm. “I was trying to save us! To help—!”

His words faltered as my head whipped around and I speared him with a seething glare. “You