The Elite
Page 56
“Do the rebels know?”
“They might,” he said, wincing as he sat up a bit straighter. “But they can’t get in once the rooms are in use. There are only three ways out. Someone with a key has to activate it from the outside, someone with a key can activate it from the inside”—Maxon patted his pocket, implying that he could get us out if he had to—“or you have to wait for two days. After forty-eight hours, the doors automatically open. The guards check every safe room once the danger has passed, but there’s always a chance they could miss one; and without the delayed-unlocking mechanism, someone could be stuck in here forever.”
It took him awhile to get all this out. He was clearly in pain, but it seemed that he was trying to distract himself with the words. He leaned forward and then hissed when the action added to whatever was hurting him.
“Maxon?”
“I can’t … I can’t take it anymore. America, help with my coat?”
He held out his arm, and I jumped up to help him slide his coat down his back. He let it drop behind him and moved to his buttons. I started helping him, but he stopped me, holding my hands in his.
“Your record for keeping secrets isn’t that impressive right now. But this is one that goes to your grave. And mine. Do you understand?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he meant. Maxon released my hands, and I slowly unbuttoned his shirt. I wondered if he’d ever imagined me doing this. I could admit that I had. Halloween night, I had lain in bed and dreamed of this very second in our future. I thought it would be much different. Still, a thrill went through me.
I had been raised a musician, but I was surrounded by artists. I’d once seen a sculpture that was hundreds of years old of an athlete throwing a disk. I’d thought to myself at the time that only an artist could do that, make someone’s body look so beautiful. Maxon’s chest was as sculpted as any piece of art I’d ever seen.
But everything changed as I went to slide the shirt down his back. It stuck to him, making a slippery, sticky sound as I tried to get it to move.
“Slowly,” he said. I nodded and went behind him to try from there.
The back of Maxon’s shirt was soaked with blood.
I gasped, immobile for a moment. But then, sensing that my staring made things worse, I kept working. Once I got the shirt off, I threw it on one of the hooks, giving myself a moment to gain my composure.
I turned around and got a good look at Maxon’s back. A bleeding gash on his shoulder tore down to his waist and crossed over another one that was also dripping blood, which crossed over another one that had been healed for a while, which crossed over yet another one that was puckered from age. It looked like there were maybe six fresh slashes across Maxon’s back piled on top of too many more to count.
How could this have happened? Maxon was the prince. He was royal, sovereign, set apart from everyone. He was above everything, sometimes including the law, so how had he come to be covered with scars?
Then I remembered the look in the king’s eyes tonight. And Maxon’s effort to hide his fear. How could any man do this to his son?
I turned away again, hunting until I found a small washcloth. I went to the sink, glad to find that it worked even though the water was ice-cold.
I steadied myself and walked over, trying to be calm for his sake. “This might sting a little,” I warned.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m used to it.”
I took the wet washcloth and dabbed at the long gouge in his shoulder, deciding that I’d work from the top down. He pulled away a bit but took it all silently. When I moved on to the second gash, Maxon started talking.
“I’ve been preparing for tonight for years, you know? I’ve been waiting for the day when I was strong enough to take him on.”
Maxon was silent for a moment, and some things made sense: why a person who sat at a desk had such serious muscles, why he always seemed half dressed and ready to go, why a girl calling him a child and pushing him would make him angry.
I cleared my throat. “Why didn’t you?”
He paused. “I was afraid that if he didn’t have me, he’d want you.”
I had to stop for a moment, too overcome even to speak. Tears threatened to spill over, but I tried to hold it together. I was sure it would only make things worse.
“Does anyone know?” I asked.
“No.”
“Not the doctor? Or your mother?”
“The doctor must, but he’s quiet. And I would never tell my mother or even give her a reason to suspect. She knows Father is stern with me, but I don’t want her to worry. And I can take it.”
I kept dabbing.
“He’s not like this with her,” he promised quickly. “She gets mistreated in her own ways, I suppose, but not like this.”
“Hmm,” I said, not sure of what else to say.
I wiped again, and Maxon hissed. “Damn, that stings.”
I pulled away for a minute while he slowed down his breathing. After a moment, he made a small nod, so I started again.
“I have more sympathy for Carter and Marlee than you know,” he said, trying to sound light. “These things take awhile to stop hurting, especially if you’re determined to take care of them on your own.”
I paused for a moment, shocked. Marlee got caned fifteen times at once. I think if I had to, I’d pick that over them coming at times you weren’t prepared.
“What are the others for?” I asked, then shook my head. “Never mind. That’s rude.”
He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Things I said or did. Things I know.”
“Things I know,” I added. “Maxon, I’m so …” My breathing hitched, threatening to send me over the edge. I might as well have caned him myself.
He didn’t turn around, but his hand searched and found my knee. “How are you going to finish fixing me up if you’re crying?”
I laughed weakly through the tears and wiped my face. I got everything cleaned, trying to stay gentle.
“Do you think there are any bandages in here?” I asked, looking around the room.
“The box,” he said.
As he sat there, steadying his breathing, I opened the clasps on the box, looking at the abundance of supplies.
“Why don’t you have bandages in your room?”
“Sheer pride. I was determined never to need them again.”
I sighed quietly. I read the labels, finding a disinfectant solution, something that looked like it would help soothe the pain, and bandages.
“They might,” he said, wincing as he sat up a bit straighter. “But they can’t get in once the rooms are in use. There are only three ways out. Someone with a key has to activate it from the outside, someone with a key can activate it from the inside”—Maxon patted his pocket, implying that he could get us out if he had to—“or you have to wait for two days. After forty-eight hours, the doors automatically open. The guards check every safe room once the danger has passed, but there’s always a chance they could miss one; and without the delayed-unlocking mechanism, someone could be stuck in here forever.”
It took him awhile to get all this out. He was clearly in pain, but it seemed that he was trying to distract himself with the words. He leaned forward and then hissed when the action added to whatever was hurting him.
“Maxon?”
“I can’t … I can’t take it anymore. America, help with my coat?”
He held out his arm, and I jumped up to help him slide his coat down his back. He let it drop behind him and moved to his buttons. I started helping him, but he stopped me, holding my hands in his.
“Your record for keeping secrets isn’t that impressive right now. But this is one that goes to your grave. And mine. Do you understand?”
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure what he meant. Maxon released my hands, and I slowly unbuttoned his shirt. I wondered if he’d ever imagined me doing this. I could admit that I had. Halloween night, I had lain in bed and dreamed of this very second in our future. I thought it would be much different. Still, a thrill went through me.
I had been raised a musician, but I was surrounded by artists. I’d once seen a sculpture that was hundreds of years old of an athlete throwing a disk. I’d thought to myself at the time that only an artist could do that, make someone’s body look so beautiful. Maxon’s chest was as sculpted as any piece of art I’d ever seen.
But everything changed as I went to slide the shirt down his back. It stuck to him, making a slippery, sticky sound as I tried to get it to move.
“Slowly,” he said. I nodded and went behind him to try from there.
The back of Maxon’s shirt was soaked with blood.
I gasped, immobile for a moment. But then, sensing that my staring made things worse, I kept working. Once I got the shirt off, I threw it on one of the hooks, giving myself a moment to gain my composure.
I turned around and got a good look at Maxon’s back. A bleeding gash on his shoulder tore down to his waist and crossed over another one that was also dripping blood, which crossed over another one that had been healed for a while, which crossed over yet another one that was puckered from age. It looked like there were maybe six fresh slashes across Maxon’s back piled on top of too many more to count.
How could this have happened? Maxon was the prince. He was royal, sovereign, set apart from everyone. He was above everything, sometimes including the law, so how had he come to be covered with scars?
Then I remembered the look in the king’s eyes tonight. And Maxon’s effort to hide his fear. How could any man do this to his son?
I turned away again, hunting until I found a small washcloth. I went to the sink, glad to find that it worked even though the water was ice-cold.
I steadied myself and walked over, trying to be calm for his sake. “This might sting a little,” I warned.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m used to it.”
I took the wet washcloth and dabbed at the long gouge in his shoulder, deciding that I’d work from the top down. He pulled away a bit but took it all silently. When I moved on to the second gash, Maxon started talking.
“I’ve been preparing for tonight for years, you know? I’ve been waiting for the day when I was strong enough to take him on.”
Maxon was silent for a moment, and some things made sense: why a person who sat at a desk had such serious muscles, why he always seemed half dressed and ready to go, why a girl calling him a child and pushing him would make him angry.
I cleared my throat. “Why didn’t you?”
He paused. “I was afraid that if he didn’t have me, he’d want you.”
I had to stop for a moment, too overcome even to speak. Tears threatened to spill over, but I tried to hold it together. I was sure it would only make things worse.
“Does anyone know?” I asked.
“No.”
“Not the doctor? Or your mother?”
“The doctor must, but he’s quiet. And I would never tell my mother or even give her a reason to suspect. She knows Father is stern with me, but I don’t want her to worry. And I can take it.”
I kept dabbing.
“He’s not like this with her,” he promised quickly. “She gets mistreated in her own ways, I suppose, but not like this.”
“Hmm,” I said, not sure of what else to say.
I wiped again, and Maxon hissed. “Damn, that stings.”
I pulled away for a minute while he slowed down his breathing. After a moment, he made a small nod, so I started again.
“I have more sympathy for Carter and Marlee than you know,” he said, trying to sound light. “These things take awhile to stop hurting, especially if you’re determined to take care of them on your own.”
I paused for a moment, shocked. Marlee got caned fifteen times at once. I think if I had to, I’d pick that over them coming at times you weren’t prepared.
“What are the others for?” I asked, then shook my head. “Never mind. That’s rude.”
He shrugged his uninjured shoulder. “Things I said or did. Things I know.”
“Things I know,” I added. “Maxon, I’m so …” My breathing hitched, threatening to send me over the edge. I might as well have caned him myself.
He didn’t turn around, but his hand searched and found my knee. “How are you going to finish fixing me up if you’re crying?”
I laughed weakly through the tears and wiped my face. I got everything cleaned, trying to stay gentle.
“Do you think there are any bandages in here?” I asked, looking around the room.
“The box,” he said.
As he sat there, steadying his breathing, I opened the clasps on the box, looking at the abundance of supplies.
“Why don’t you have bandages in your room?”
“Sheer pride. I was determined never to need them again.”
I sighed quietly. I read the labels, finding a disinfectant solution, something that looked like it would help soothe the pain, and bandages.
