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  As I leave the shelter of the booth, the wind nearly knocks me sideways. Stepping past the edge of the wall always sends a thrill through me. I know there isn’t any danger on the pier, but the sensation of being in the wild is potent. Each step away from society feels like a step toward freedom, and I know it’s crazy, but I imagine shedding my life and becoming a new person. I don’t fit anywhere. I’m a smart, somewhat pretty woman, in an average world with no way to advance.

  I may be decent with numbers, but I’m not much good at anything else. Calculations are fun when the equation is static, but the formula of life never stands still. When my parents were alive, I planned to be a scientist, but they died before I could apply. Their death changed my entire future, but I hold no anger toward them. Truly, my life is not terrible. I have a job—financier for several low-funded research branches—a house to live in, and a few friends.

  But I feel trapped. Trapped by my parents’ memory. Trapped by the pain of losing them. Trapped by society. These once-a-month excursions are a must.

  Sucking in the hot, dry air, I continue down the pier, the hubbub of the tourists fading behind me.

  I stop about three-quarters of the way, propping my elbows on the steel railing and leaning over. Although warm to the touch, the specialized coating absorbs most of the heat, so the surface doesn’t burn my skin. When the pier was first built, it was made of steel and concrete, but decades ago it was upgraded with the coating. A new substance at the time, it was a breakthrough in technology, and the pier was chosen as the test run. It absorbs the heat, creating a current of electricity that doesn’t need to be converted by a processor. The sun power gathered by the pier still provides enough electricity to run three water pumps in this sector of the city.

  The sand underneath emanates heat, even though the sun only rose an hour ago. It always gives off warmth, even at night. The sun blazes so hot during the day that it never gets a chance to cool. I let it sink into my skin and warm my muscles, imagining a solid hug from my father.

  I’m standing where their ashes were released. Cremation is the standard for bodies, but the government regulates where they can be released. Many families opt to keep their loved ones in an urn, but I couldn’t do it. So, it was either here or ‘the fields'—a rooftop manufactured to look like a field of tall grass. I couldn’t choose there. The entire roof is encased in glass, and the released ashes are filtered and immediately repurposed—I can’t define why, but something didn’t feel right. Maybe it was that so many other people find the same fate. Maybe it was because I couldn’t stand my parents’ ashes mixing in with all those strangers.

  This option seemed better. I couldn’t trap my parents in a jar, and I wasn’t willing to repurpose them. It felt right to set them free, swirling in the wilderness, unbeholden to anyone. Looking out at the vast, open landscape, my throat clogs and tears fill my eyes.

  Will this be the rest of my life? Stuck in a world full of sorrow and monotony? I miss my parents—wish I could speak with my father again, hold my mother again. I swallow, trying to hide my pain a little longer. Once I start, I won’t stop until the sun begins to set.

  The sand below sparkles as the wind shifts it about, and a few pieces of garbage shine in the mixture. Seeing the proof of humans in my place of refuge steals my control. I let go of the reins, allowing my tears to flow down my face and my mind to replay the day I lost my parents.

  It gets hotter as the sun reaches its pinnacle. Every few minutes I take a few steps further away from the city, soaking in the wild and expending my grief. A few others mill around, but no one stays as long as I. When they see my face, they don’t bother me. Most tighten their lips, sympathy in their eyes, while others avoid looking at me once they realize I’m crying.

  It doesn’t bother me. There aren’t many others that come here, and those that do understand. You don’t make a trek out to the wall to party—this is an area for remembrance and deep thought. The epic view is enough to strike the most hard-hearted with awe.

  I make it to the end of the pier in the early afternoon. Sitting on a coated concrete bench, I pull my lunchbox into my lap and unzip it. The first thing I do is suck down some water, ignoring the tears on my face, then open my sandwich. After a few bites, I take out my napkin and clean my cheeks—new tears means my face doesn’t stay dry long, but it’s become a routine I don’t wish to change.

  After I finish my sandwich and chips, I guzzle the rest of my water and close my trash inside the box. I sit for a little longer, letting the ugly concrete railing block out the bright sand, and wonder at the color of the sky.

  Blue is not an adequate description. Purple doesn’t fit either. It’s a mix of colors, never stagnant or boring. At times, the harsh sun makes it seem white, while at others it reflects an almost magenta hue from the city. I wonder if it changes more the further you roam from society.

  My feet protest as I stand, but I ignore them and make my way to the end of the pier—the furthest I can be from Baseon. I lean against the rail and extend my arms out into the open air. The wind whips my hair in every direction, smearing my tears and wetting my dark locks. I close my eyes and reach forward, filling my lungs with the untainted air, and open my soul to the desert's magnificence. The sun hammers into my arms, but I don’t care.

  Yesterday I added a Skin Shield cycle to my shower, which bolsters my dermis’ regenerative abilities and prevents negative effects from natural elements. Even though it stays active for forty-eight hours, I also slathered myself with RayBlok, the highest-grade skin protectant available. With my fair skin, I can’t be too careful. Rubbing in the RayBlok this morning reminded me of my father’s battle with the sun—he was so white he used Skin Shield and RayBlok every other day and still almost burnt walking to work and back. My mother never shared his struggle—the closest she ever got to wearing skin protection was what leaked off my father when they touched. Genetics are a profound thing, and I’m grateful I inherited traits from both of my parents. My mother gave me dark hair, full lips, and brown eyes while my father gave me a button nose, fair skin, and above average height.

  When my shoulders strain and my back aches from holding out my arms, I lace my fingers together and bring my palms to the back of my head. After a while, my heart feels empty, as though the dunes have sucked my pain away.

  I open my eyes as the edge of the sun meets the top of the tallest mound of sand, and shake out my cramping arms. I step away from the railing and head towards the wall, taking my time, enjoying the view. The sky turns every shade of beautiful as the sun descends, and I wish I could see this from the apartment. Although it wouldn’t be the same with a glass barrier, at least then I’d have a vivid reminder of these rare moments of peace.

  At about the halfway point, I reach into my lunchbox and retrieve my napkin, using it to wipe my face. When I reach the entrance to the pier, there are no more tear tracks, but I’m certain my eyes are red and puffy. It doesn’t matter, the evening traffic will have already slowed—my way home will be in relative solitude. I wave to Garen as he locks the booth door behind him. He’ll shut the gate to the pier next, but the last transporter will be here soon, so I can’t linger to speak with him. He waves back and I head towards the station.

  The numbness in my heart is a welcome relief. For the moment, I refuse to think about what comes next or why I’ll start hurting again. I stand at the platform and exist, a grin tugging at my lips. Shya accepted my gift. I’ll get to see her soon, which means I can soak up more beauty. The bright lights of the train become visible down the tracks, so I step closer, eager to smile at my new friend.

  The transporter stops in front of me, and as soon as the doors are open wide enough, I step across the threshold. I smile at Shya, and although she smiles back, her eyes hold wariness. My heart flutters in worry. Did she get in trouble because I gave her some water? Did she think about my gift and end up getting mad? Why does she look so concerned?

  I say hello, moving to my normal spot a
nd trying to not let my doubts get the better of me.

  “Hi!” she responds, but it seems as though she’s forcing happiness into her tone.

  “Is something wrong? Are you ok?” I ask, realizing she’s holding on to the little panel of buttons.

  “I think I’m fine! It’s been a long day, though!” she says, her voice a little higher than I remember.

  The button starts flashing, and her eyebrows scrunch together. She looks startled and perplexed at the same time, but she turns and checks the doors. I was the only one to board this car, but the next one has an older couple sitting in the seats nearest the exit. Seeing everything is clear, Shya turns to push the button.

  I expect for her to slide her hand forward and press it, but instead her other arm lifts and she presses her forearm against her breastbone. Alarm rushes through me as a look of pain flashes across her face, but when I step forward her expression changes.

  “I’m fine. It’s ok.” Her voice is breathy. She doesn’t seem fine, and a heavy weight blankets the air around us, making me feel like something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

  She mashes the button and the blinking stops. As the ping resonates through the car, my stomach tightens. I grab the strap to steady myself, but something presses in all around me. The doors seal us in and I fight the urge to scream.

  Shya clings to the control panel and meets my stare.

  Together, we feel it. Before anything unusual happens, our expressions fill with fear. Regret billows from her in waves, and the transporter glides forward.

  The fear builds as the car accelerates. Seconds seem like lifetimes as our fate rushes closer. As I squeeze the strap in terror, she reaches out to me, her tiny fingers seeking to connect with mine. I lift my hand, intending to clasp hers.

  I never make it.

  Chapter Four

  Vander

  I slam the door open, breaking the locks and splintering the wood. Taking in the scene, I curse and bolt forward. Jumoke runs in behind me, but I focus on Kwame. He lies on his side, facing away from the door, so I can’t see his face. When I turn him onto his back, I grit my teeth and press my fingers against his carotid artery. Not allowing emotions to tamper with my actions, I layer my palms over his sternum, lock my elbows, and jam my weight into my arms. Letting my training fuel my actions, I pump his chest, using an engrained rhythm and count. I tilt his head back, seal my mouth to his, and inflate his lungs. Again, I put my weight into my thrusts, demanding his heart start pumping. After what feels like an eternity, I tilt his head back, prepared to give him my breath again, but he sucks oxygen in on his own.

  Fucking shit. What the hell just happened?

  I lay my fingers on his neck and monitor his progress. It takes him a few labored breaths, but his heartbeat strengthens. His chest rises and falls, and I turn my attention to the rest of the room. Nothing is out of place—there are zero signs of struggle. The door was locked, there are no weird smells, and neither man shows external injury. Keeping my fingers to Kwame’s artery, I concentrate on Dirk.

  He remains how I first saw him—knees and right palm holding him off the floor, his left forearm tucked against his sternum, and his head hanging.

  “Dirk,” I say, my tone sharp with urgency and command.

  He doesn’t respond. On closer inspection, I realize he’s shaking like a leaf in the wind, and his fist clenches so tight his knuckles are white.

  I snap his name out again, but he doesn’t answer. Jumoke hovers over him, perplexed and concerned.

  “Hit him,” I decide, wondering if there’s a toxin in the air. If so, we need protection. Now.

  Jumoke slaps Dirk on the back. We freeze in astonishment as Dirk breaks down in sobs, his guttural moans unlike any sound he’s ever made before.

  “Fucking hell, Dirk, what happened!? Goddamn it!” I snap, unable to hide my rising panic.

  Kwame’s fingers brush mine, and I swing my gaze back to him. He swipes a tear off his temple, then lays his palm over his heart.

  Realization settles in, and I focus my senses on the unseen.

  The solid connection between Seeck and Nova sings in glee. I shuffle things around, searching through the links of my brothers.

  Fuck.

  Where there was a blank slate, now an ugly mass of char extends from both Dirk and Kwame. Those theoretical lines were meant for their mates. They’ve just experienced a severed bond.

  No, wait. This is more than that. They wouldn’t be reacting to an unfulfilled bond this way, unless…

  Unless it was their lifemates. Unless their lifemates were…

  With a stone in my stomach, I rise to my feet and peer out the window.

  Off in the distance, in the city outskirts, a plume of smoke rises into the fading light of dusk. The husk of a transporter, four times too small, sits in the middle of the tracks, black clouds streaming from its windows.

  I swallow, understanding the significance.

  Dirk and Kwame’s lifemates were on that train.

  The likelihood of their survival is slim.

  Chapter Five

  Dirk

  I’d rather die. This gaping hole in my soul carries the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Give me trials, give me agony, give me torture. Anything but this. When it flashed through me, the initial pain was so fierce I feared my heart had burst, and the blood filling my chest cavity had turned to acid.

  These tears are the poison overflow. My limbs refuse to move as my soul roars in anguish. Horror clouds my senses and I let loose my misery.

  The pain is too much. Death would be sweet release.

  I lose myself in despair, uncaring about the world around me. Swimming in my broken heart, I nearly miss it, but when I feel it, all my senses snap to attention.

  The ragged hole in my heart isn’t empty. A thin, burnt, almost ruined thread threatens to dissolve. I pounce, desperate to save the connection between myself and my lifemate, but before I snatch up the brittle strand, I halt. Poised a breath away, I push my haste to the side and let the voice of reason grow inside my mind. Through the delicate line I feel her struggle for life. My brute strength cannot save her. My demands will not bolster her.

  Imagining my massive hands without their callouses, I use the lightest touch to envelope the fragile bond. With gentle caresses, words of comfort, and encouraging love, I praise her every breath, exalt in her bravery, and promise to support her every step of the way.

  She just needs to survive. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stay alive.

  Coaxing her with gentle nudges, I encourage her as though I’m urging an ember to light—soft breaths, cautious movements, and tiny bits of nutrients. Ages pass, but I’m oblivious to everything except her. The tiny spark of her life grows in little increments, until the fear of immediate death recedes.

  She doesn’t have the strength for more, but glowing coals assure me of her existence. I pull back, widening my scope of vision, and process the aches of my body. My thighs shake in exhaustion and my arms threaten to fold under my weight.

  Taking in a ragged breath, I push off my elbows and rise to my hands and knees. I lift my head, my neck straining with the movement, and see Kwame. He lies flat on his back with his hand over his heart. His chest rises and falls, but his vacant eyes stare unblinking at the ceiling.

  My relief at my lifemate’s survival screams in guilt, his expression telling me everything.

  I’ve coaxed my Omega to stay alive.

  He never got a chance. She is dead.

  I crawl to him, my joints creaking as though I’m an old Beta, and grab his shoulder.

  He does nothing to acknowledge my presence—his eyes stay blank, body remains lax, and his chest slowly rises and falls.

  I have no words to give him. Nothing will ease his pain, but I squeeze his shoulder, letting him know he isn’t alone.

  My instincts tug me, and I follow the urge to look out the window. I crawl the few feet to the wall, then use the windowsill to pull myself to my feet.

 
The black smoke is so similar to the charred link in my chest that seeing it causes nausea so strong I nearly vomit. I swallow down the excess saliva and focus on the scene. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles and spotlights from hovering City-Flyers paint the transporter in brightness.

  They’ve cut a large section near the back of the car open and extracted a few bodies. Three lay, side by side, on a tarp a few feet from the opening. Paramedics stand about, the hopelessness of the situation apparent in their reluctant movements. A figure catches my eye, my senses alerting on him, but I can’t figure out why. He moves among the mayhem just like everyone else, speaking words to a select few, wearing the same uniform as the others.

  Something about him doesn’t sit right with me, but I can’t pinpoint what.

  Movement from the transporter yanks my attention away, and I watch as two men emerge from the smoke, a stretcher between them. A form small enough to be a child is strapped to it, a white sheet wrapped around everything except the head and face.

  From this distance I can’t make out the features, but deep within me I know who it is. The link between us is so weak and tenuous my heart aches, but she’s mine.

  My lifemate. My Omega.

  I lean my forehead against the window, the cool glass smearing with my sweat, and I press my palm to the surface. Spreading my fingers, I imagine my hand resting over her heart, shielding her from the chaos of the world. The connection between us shudders, but I let love seep from my heart, a trickle of strength flowing into her.

  The men rush the stretcher to an emergency transporter. To my surprise, the strange man leads another stretcher in directly behind them. My eyes flick to the bodies.

  There are only two.

  Chapter Six

  Kwame

  He’s wrong. She’s dead.

  It doesn’t matter what he thinks he’s seen. I know in my marrow she’s gone. My soul has been cracked open like an egg, the yolk spilling forth and leaving an empty shell behind.