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

me with his gaze. I shrugged, taking a step back from the table. “He lied to us when he could get away with it, he killed a bunch of people, and the only good thing he did, he did for the wrong reasons.”

“That’s fair,” Owen said after a while, then gave a rueful smile, as though my vehemence amused him. It didn’t amuse me. I honestly couldn’t bring myself to care about Ashabee’s plight. He had done his best covering for us, but that didn’t mean I was beholden to him. At this point, the fact that he hadn’t told us about the stronghold downstairs was just another reason to loathe the man.

On the other hand, this stash was basically a rebel group’s dream come true. Now that we had found it, I was glad we were going to be able to use Ashabee’s personal weapons for our cause, rather than letting him squander them on his grandiose pride.

I asked Owen to let Ms. Dale know about the stash so she could start inventorying it, then headed upstairs, needing a moment to myself. I moved about the house restlessly, pausing outside King Maxen’s quarters. Jay was standing outside, keeping an eye on him. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, then gave me a puzzled look as I stepped inside, as though he wondered what I was doing there. In fact, I kind of wondered that myself.

Maxen was lounging on the bed, a book in his hand. He looked up at me as I entered, and then ignored me, turning back to his book. I watched him long enough to see him lick his thumb and index finger and turn the page.

“How are you?” I asked. I wasn’t sure what had prompted me to come in and ask the question, but I was committed now.

Maxen gave me an irritated expression, theatrically closing his book with a snap. “How am I?” he hissed. “How do you think? Confined to this prison, with nobody worth talking to. Nearly killed by a bunch of women, probably having their time of the month, I might add, and now you—upstart Matrian bitch that you are—have the audacity to come into my room and ask me how I am?”

I could have shouted insults at him. I could have hit him. Instead, I just stared at him, letting his words roll over me. I found myself enjoying the primal rush of rage that came over me, and I almost smiled as I realized I was inches, centimeters, millimeters away from killing this man as painfully as possible. It took a titanic effort to push that compulsion aside, and a part of me, a very dark part of me, argued that I should just end him—before he had a chance to end us.

“My people need me!” the king added in the face of my silence, his voice rising to a shout. “I should be out there, not trapped in here!”

I cocked my head at him and smiled. It was more a baring of teeth than a smile, and I felt the corners of my mouth turn up more when he flinched visibly. “If you really cared about your people,” I said from between my clenched teeth, my voice dangerously low, “you would have at least tried to attend the burial of the twelve men, women, and children who died so that you could hide in a closet.”

And without giving him a chance to respond, I left, gently closing the door behind me.

29

Viggo

“See, data transfers between Matrus and Patrus happen at eight bits per second, which destroys our ability to download the terabytes of data—well, it’s kind of self-explanatory at this point, but I am more than happy to explain it…”

It was the third time Thomas had used what seemed like the exact same sentence to explain, and I was having a hard time focusing. I knew a little about computers, but this was out of my realm of understanding.

I was still exhausted from the day before—although my love Violet had brought me some coffee she had found in the kitchen—and my head was throbbing again. After the battle, I’d spent hours helping relocate the surviving refugees, getting some of them first aid, and digging yet more graves. It wouldn’t bring their loved ones back, but I knew that it helped to treat the dead with dignity. It was the least I could do.

“Thomas,” I said softly. It was rude, but I was tired of waiting for the strange little man to take a breath in his lengthy explanation.

He kept talking, his eyes fixed on the computer as he highlighted another bit of code as an example of what he was talking about.

“Thomas,” I said again, a bit more loudly.

The man blinked, but his mouth never stopped moving as he gesticulated with one hand and the mouse.

“Thomas!” I shouted, and the man gave a frightened yelp, leaping out of his chair.

“What?” he asked, clutching his hand to his chest, sweat beginning to form on his brow. He turned toward me slightly, panting, his eyes wide and his hands shaking, and I resisted the urge to shake him harder.

“In the simplest language possible, please give me an update on your research into finding the Benuxupane that Desmond might have stored in Matrus.”

“Oh,” the man said, seeming to shrink for a moment as he thought about my request. I waited, counting slowly to ten in my head. At about eight, the man straightened, tugging his shirtfront down over his belly. “I can’t get that information,” he said curtly.

My jaw dropped as he proceeded to turn around and sit back in the chair, his focus entirely on the screen.

I took a long, slow breath. “Thomas?” I asked.

“Hm?” the man responded, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

“Why not?” He opened his mouth, and I cringed, hastily adding, “Simplest language!”

The reply on his lips died and he cocked his head, seeming to think this