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

by the horrible deaths in the past two days. I was holding on by letting the coldly practical side of my mind take over. I told myself that we had won, we had saved people, we were going to move on with the battle. It was how I had looked at our innumerable setbacks. No feeling. Just move on, move on, move on. When that didn’t work—and it wasn’t working well—I tried to drown my feelings in those of the people around me. If I had to be strong to help and support them, then I couldn’t give in to despair. I couldn’t think about the dead children, or Henrik’s worsening condition.

I was beginning to suspect that if I didn’t have Viggo’s state of mind to worry about, I would have just collapsed into a puddle of angry nerves and then despair.

But it looked like that was happening anyway. At least Owen and I could laugh about it.

“How many did you manage to recruit?” I asked, pulling out more cans and stacking them up.

“Twenty-seven,” he replied. “No pilots, unfortunately, but it’s still great news. Actually, Ashabee’s staff were among the first volunteers. Kind of surprising, but Jeff and the rest of them seem determined to become King Maxen’s new honor guard.”

I made a face, and Owen nodded. “I couldn’t believe it either. I asked Jeff if he was serious, but he was adamant. Although he did tell me that he didn’t want to keep Maxen alive for patriotic reasons—just that he knows that Maxen is an important tool in this war.”

I nodded, but my eyebrows still hitched up in surprise. “I knew there was a reason I liked Jeff,” I said wryly as I carefully counted the canned peaches spread out on the counter.

“I also think that the group of them has had so much experience in dealing with pigheaded men that taking care of the king isn’t going to be a big transition for them,” he offered, and we both laughed bitterly, then moved on to the next question.

“Has anybody heard anything from Amber and Quinn yet?”

Owen’s face grew carefully neutral, which I had learned could be a sign of worry. “Not yet,” he admitted. “It’s only really been a day and a half, though… They’re probably still in transit. I’m not even sure if they’ll be able to contact us from The Green. It might not be wise, with Desmond so near. They could be across the border already.” The reassuring tone of his words didn’t reach his voice, which sounded distinctly worried.

“They’re both smart. I’m sure they’ll be fine,” I said, trying to be reassuring but feeling the exact same way.

We both fell silent, feeling the weight of the things we couldn’t know, and I scribbled some notes on the paper I was using as an inventory log. “Anything else exciting?” I finally asked, trying to sound relaxed, and wondering if there was something in particular he’d come to see me about.

He seemed to consider, and then something sparked in his eyes. “Oh! Yes, actually, I thought there was something you might want to see.”

“What is it?”

“It’s easier if I just show it to you,” Owen replied mysteriously.

Intrigued, and glad for a distraction from everyone’s grief, I set down my pen and clipboard and followed him through the house. The kitchen sat an inordinately long distance from both dining rooms, so he had to lead me across half the house before we reached the servants’ staircase Viggo had been defending. I slowed to a stop as he did.

The blood had been mopped off the floor, and all the debris caused by gunshots and Solomon’s rampage had been disposed of. There were still spots of blood on the wall, and I could see the damage to the bannisters, and the places where the dry wall was cracked and broken, presumably because of Solomon. I looked around the scene, and then over to Owen, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t get it.”

Owen smiled and went over to the wall under the stairs, in the corner, where the steps turned and formed a landing. “Look,” he exclaimed, pointing at one particular crack in the wall.

I stared at it, and then realized it wasn’t like the others. It was almost perfectly straight, with small cracks branching off, but only to the left. “What is it?” I asked, meeting his gaze.

Owen’s smile broadened, and he moved in front of the crack and pressed his hand against it. There was a soft click, and then the wall dropped down into the floor, revealing another set of stairs. These led down into a brightly lit, white room. Intrigued, I moved past him and made my way down the steps, my eyes widening in surprise as I took in the wide space, packed top-to-bottom with equipment.

Military equipment, to be specific. Heavily armored vehicles sat in rows in the vast white room, and table upon table lined the other side, some piled with weapons, some covered in gadgets strewn apart, some holding boxes of ammunition. I whistled in appreciation as I moved to one of the tables and carefully picked up a rifle, mechanically clearing it before setting it back down. “Ashabee?”

Owen came up next to me. “Yeah—apparently he didn’t deign to tell us about this.”

“This… is amazing.” My eyes ran over a table of electrical gadgets, noting the ten subvocalizers on it, and I shook my head in awe and surprise. The sadness of yesterday still lay heavy upon my heart, but my brain had a new distraction, and it was already spinning with ideas.

We walked back and forth for a while among the rows of weapons and vehicles in silent awe. At some point, Owen asked pensively, “Do you think he’s okay?”

I blinked in surprise and turned to him. It took me a moment to realize he meant Ashabee; it took me even less time to process how I felt about the situation he was in. “Who cares?” I said.

Owen looked sharply at me, questioning