Max frowned at me. “Eden? Didn’t you just come from her room?”

I sagged beneath the weight of his words. “She will be. Angelina’s with her now.” I searched his flint-colored eyes. I’d been so consumed with Eden, and now the discovery of this message, that I hadn’t taken the time to consider Max, and the fact that Xander was his brother. “Max. I’m so sorry.”

He winced at my words, and his jaw flexed ever so slightly when my hand reached across the distance to his. I knew what he was going to say even before he said it. “I’m fine,” he answered in a voice that was too brusque and dismissive to ring true.

I tried not to be offended when he pulled his hand away from my touch. It was a lot for him to take in, the fact that his brother’s severed hand had just been delivered to us. “What do you think it means, the . . .” I almost said “the message” but I stopped myself, thinking of the letter buried in my pocket, and instead said, “The box?” I hated asking the question, but Max wasn’t just the man I loved. He was my adviser, and I counted on him.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to ask the other question that lodged in my throat. About what he thought it might mean for Xander.

He shook his head, and I could see him trying to wall his emotions off behind duty. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. We rounded up the two messengers who ran off, and the three of them are being questioned now. If they know anything at all about Xander, we’ll find out. Until then . . .”

He looked past me as his words trailed away and he lost his train of thought. My heart broke as I saw the fracture in his resolve. He wasn’t as impervious as he pretended to be. “Are you going to be okay?” I asked, this time shifting so he was forced to meet my eyes directly. I took his hands and gripped them, not letting him shake me off this time. “It’s all right if you’re not. I know the two of you are . . . complicated, but this is your brother we’re talking about.” I squeezed his fingers to emphasize my point, frowning tenaciously.

Max sighed as he reached for me, his arms dragging me against him. He settled his chin against the top of my head as he let out his breath. After a long, thoughtful moment his hands tugged at the lightweight body armor I was still wearing. “What are you up to, Charlie?”

I tipped my head back and glanced up at him, hoping he couldn’t feel the sudden flutter of my heartbeat against his chest. “I—I just want answers. Same as everyone else.”

He shook his head, telling me that wasn’t what he was asking, and I knew he was onto me, that he’d recognized my attempt to be oblique. “You know what I mean. I’m talking about your chain mail, and you know it.” He drew back and regarded my attire with a suspicious eye. “Explain, please.”

I tried to think of a million ways to shrug it off—the strange garb, my ruffled hair, and the dirt I’d already tried to rub from my face. But Max wouldn’t be put off by anything and would demand the truth.

If only I could find a way to soften it . . .

“Zafir is teaching me to fight,” I blurted, my heart stuttering as the words burst from my lips, surprising even me when I heard them aloud.

Max regarded me, his dark eyes clouding. “To . . . fight . . .” He repeated the words slowly, as if they were foreign and he couldn’t seem to absorb them. As if he understood each of them individually but not all together in their context. “You?” he asked, giving me the strangest look, and again I got the distinct feeling that my explanation hadn’t quite registered yet.

A pair of guards entered the main hall, and suddenly the enormous space felt overcrowded, and my patience grew thin. I smiled weakly as the men passed us, and I no longer cared about how I looked or about things like manners or etiquette.

I reached for Max and half-dragged him from the hall, until we were deeper down the passageway, to the part of the palace where my family was housed. Once we were away from every possible prying ear, I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin.

“Yes, me, Max.” My voice was firm now. “Zafir has been teaching me how to fight for months. And not just how to defend myself should I be attacked,” I explained stubbornly, wanting it all out in the open now. “But how to wield weapons too . . . swords, knives, even guns. I can shoot at both short and long range.” I cocked my head. “I can also break a man’s wrist.” I remembered how I’d taken Zafir out of commission for a few days when he’d underestimated my grasp of this technique. I might not have actually broken his wrist, but he’d certainly had to lay low. He would have had a hard time explaining that I’d been the reason he’d had to bandage it to keep it immobile.

Max’s frown deepened, but at least he seemed to be grasping the words as a whole now. “But . . . why? You have guards for that. You don’t need to know how to fight.”

I crossed my arms. “You can fight. I’ve seen you. And you grew up with guards.” I challenged.

“That’s different,” he countered. “I joined the military. What kind of soldier would I have been if I hadn’t been able to fight?” He shook his head, still scrutinizing me as if the idea were preposterous. “You’re not thinking of joining the military, are you, Charlie?”

I considered his question, and my reasons for persuading Zafir to teach me in the first place. I’d had dreams about being tougher, stronger than I ever thought I was. And I’d proven that I could be—I’d very nearly broken my own guard’s wrist.