The Gender Lie (The Gender Game #3) by Bella Forrest (ebook reader for laptop TXT) 📗

I risked a glance at Violet and saw total understanding. She reached out to cup my cheek, her thumb stroking my stubble. “It’s okay,” she said. “I get it. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’m here. Okay?”

I nodded, some of my negative feelings dissipating, before my lips turned upward. “I really do appreciate it, but as I said before, if there is somewhere you need to be or something you need to do… then you should do it. I’ll be okay here with Dr. Tierney.”

Violet’s eyebrows drew together and she slowly lowered her hand from my face. “You… want me to go?” she asked.

“No! Of course not. I’m not saying that at all. I just… I don’t want you to waste your time — doesn’t that make sense?”

Violet’s frown deepened, and I sighed, my earlier frustration returning. “I didn’t mean to imply that I’m not important to you,” I said, picking at a loose string on my hospital gown. “I just meant that—”

“It’s okay, I think I understand,” Violet murmured. “I mean, I don’t totally understand, but if you think I should go and help Owen, then I will.”

I let out the breath I was holding and jumped on the out she was offering me. “I do. I can tell you’ve come to care about the people here, so if there’s something you need to do to help them, then do it… you, uh, know where to find me.”

The last part I added in a dry tone, and it had the desired effect of wiping away Violet’s frown and getting her to chuckle. “Okay,” she acquiesced, leaning forward to land a kiss on my forehead. “But if you need anything, or if you just want to see me, then—”

“I promise I will tell Dr. Tierney.”

“Okay… I’ll see you as soon as I’m done,” she promised before leaving.

I watched her go, the smile fading from my lips, and turned to Dr. Tierney.

“Is there any way… you could… ask Violet not to come for my physical therapy appointments?” I asked with considerable effort as I met the doctor’s gaze, feeling every bit the coward in that moment.

21

Violet

The conversation with Viggo had been a bit odd, and I could sense there was something off with him, so retreating had seemed like the best course of action. I might have been reading too much into things—after all, he was just getting back on his feet in a manner of speaking, and had a lot of history to catch up on.

As I walked down to the next level, I tried to imagine what it would be like to be in his shoes. I wouldn’t react well to all the changes either. It had to be frustrating, waking up in a place you knew next to nothing about, surrounded by and dependent on strangers.

I let out a sigh. As it stood, I didn’t really know how much longer we were going to be able to stay here. I had clearly angered Desmond with my line of questioning from yesterday, and when I woke up this morning, I realized I regretted approaching her the way I did. I had been downright antagonistic toward her, when I had no right to be.

She was correct—she didn’t have to conform to my ideology, just as I didn’t have to conform to hers. In retrospect, I could kind of see her point about Mr. Jenks’ pills and using them, but I still felt fairly certain that I wouldn’t take them. Still, she had made a good point with the arms race comment, and I couldn’t find fault in her logic.

I just found fault with the science behind the pill. It was emotional, pure and simple; emotional reactions didn’t win battles, and they certainly wouldn’t help Desmond win her war. And it was clear that she was in it to win, although how she planned to do that was still beyond me.

I was in the process of stepping through the door connecting the stairs to the second level, when the sound of running feet hurtling toward me caught my attention. I looked up and saw Quinn racing toward me, his eyes wide and feverish.

“Violet,” he panted, sliding to a stop, his arms windmilling to keep him from losing his balance. Reaching out, I grabbed his shoulders and steadied him. His cheeks were flushed from exertion. He also looked afraid.

“What’s wrong?” I half asked, half demanded and he pointed behind him.

“It’s your brother! He’s gone… crazy, tearing up the cafeteria and… hey!”

I had already pushed past him, my heart in my throat. The cafeteria was another two levels down, and I had to race through each level to get there. I shut everything off and ran, hoping that it wasn’t as bad as Quinn was making it sound.

The only word I could find to describe the wreckage before me was devastation. The room was a disaster—tables knocked over and chairs shattered in an impressive yet terrifying display of anger. And in the center of it all stood a wild-eyed heaving young man with the same dark hair and gray eyes as me.

He stood over an unconscious person, his fists clenching and unclenching. Everyone else had scattered and fled, except for a few ducking down behind upturned tables. I saw Meera and Nissa—a little girl whose mother had joined up with the Liberators and then died while on a mission. They were crouching behind a counter in the kitchen area, and I carefully noted the knife in Meera’s hand and the way she was looking at my brother.

This was bad.

I stepped out from the doorframe and into the room, looking at my brother.

“Hey, Tim,” I said, struggling to keep my tone light and soft.

Tim looked at me, watching me warily as I moved closer to him. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Quinn dart in and move slowly toward a group of people cowering behind a table, beckoning