Not joking this time.
Studying.
“You’re good at this,” he says.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
I turn to look at him fully.
“I know.”
The engine hums softly beneath us while the crowd roars somewhere above the dust.
Bron rests his hands loosely on the wheel.
And for the first time since the competition began, I realize something unsettling.
He is actually listening now.
That realization sends a strange, uneasy ripple through my thoughts.
Because Bron Verak learning to listen might be even more dangerous than him discovering Jesse.
CHAPTER 14
BRON
The hallway outside the rally arena still carries the lingering smell of burnt fuel and sun-baked dust, the scent clinging to the air like a memory that refuses to disperse, and I walk beside Tilda with the uneasy awareness that the real race happening right now is inside my own head. The vehicle engines may have gone quiet and the crowd noise may have faded to a distant murmur echoing through the compound structure, but the image of that child refuses to loosen its grip on my thoughts. Every time I blink I see those golden eyes again, the particular burnished shade that exists in exactly one species in the galaxy, and every time the image appears my mind begins the same relentless calculation that has been grinding behind my skull since the moment I stepped into the family commons. Tilda moves beside me with deliberate calm, her posture straight and her expression neutral in the careful way someone carries themselves when they are trying very hard not to reveal what they are thinking, and that composure alone tells me more than any confession ever could. I watch the tension in her shoulders and the tiny controlled rhythm of her breathing and realize with a dull, inevitable certainty that she already knows what I am about to ask.
The corridor opens into a quieter section of the compound where the cameras thin out and the overhead lighting softens from the harsh white glare of the competition wings into something closer to ordinary building illumination, and I slow my pace just enough that she has to notice the shift. She stops walking two steps later, turning toward me. For a moment we simply look at each other while the ambient hum of ventilation systems and distant voices fills the silence between us, and the longer that silence stretches the heavier the question becomes inside my chest. I fold my arms loosely, not because I am trying to look confrontational but because I suddenly feel like if I leave my hands free I might start gesturing in ways that betray how hard my pulse is pounding.
“So,” I say at last, letting the word settle into the quiet space between us while I search her face for any hint that she might offer the truth without being asked directly, and the way her jaw tightens by a fraction tells me immediately that she intends to do nothing of the sort. She lifts one eyebrow in that cool, unimpressed way she has perfected over the years, the look she uses when she thinks someone is about to say something irritating and she would prefer to get through the exchange as quickly as possible.
“So,” she echoes in a voice that sounds deliberately casual, though I notice the careful precision of her tone in the same way I notice the subtle tension in the muscles along her neck.
“That kid,” I say quietly, watching her reaction more closely now because there are certain words that land differently when the person hearing them is trying very hard not to reveal what they feel.
Her eyes narrow slightly and the silence returns for a heartbeat longer than it should, which is answer enough on its own even before she finally replies in a controlled voice that carries the faintest edge of warning. “Bron.”
“That’s not a denial,” I reply, and I keep my tone light even though the arithmetic inside my head is becoming louder by the second.
She exhales slowly through her nose, clearly counting something in her head before responding, and then she crosses her arms in front of her chest as if bracing herself for impact. “This isn’t any of your business.”
“I think that depends,” I say, tilting my head slightly as I study her expression with the same careful attention I once used to watch audiences during a performance, searching for the moment when the energy in a room shifts. “Who’s his father?”
The question lands between us with the weight of something far heavier than a simple inquiry, and the effect on her is immediate. The composure she has been holding like armor tightens even further, and for a fraction of a second I see something flash across her face that looks dangerously close to fear before she locks it down again with that same rigid control she has been using since the moment she realized I saw the child. She turns her head slightly, as though the wall beside us has suddenly become fascinating, and when she finally answers her voice is steady but noticeably cooler.
“He isn’t in the picture,” she says.
The explanation settles in my stomach like a stone, not because the words themselves are impossible but because they arrive too quickly, too neatly, the kind of response someone prepares long before the question is asked. I lean one shoulder against the wall, studying her profile while the numbers continue arranging themselves in my head whether I invite them or not.
“Not in the picture,” I repeat slowly, giving the phrase room to breathe in the quiet hallway before continuing in a tone that remains deliberately calm. “That’s a very convenient description for a missing father.”
“It’s accurate,” she replies, still not looking directly at me.
“How old is he?” I ask, because once the question begins it becomes impossible to stop following it wherever it leads.
