Free Beyond the Red by Ava Jae Page A

is stand still.
    But when the commander swings again, I can’t help it—I duck and twist hard, sending Jarek flying over me and into the commander. I’m in trouble. I should have stood still and let them beat me, but tell that to seven years of training. I turn on my heel, slam through the wall of shocked soldiers, and run. I don’t know where I’m going—I’ve been on the palace grounds for less than a day and I hardly know the way down the hall, let alone how to get back out into the desert, but if I stay in this room of infuriated soldiers, I’m dead. They’ll beat me into darkness and no amount of training will save me from an army.
    “Take him!” the commander roars behind me. I slam through the metal doors and race down the hall. My bare feet slap the cold stone tile and the thunder of boots rages behind me. I take a left, throw the door open, and race into—
    A dining hall. With six enormous floating glass screens hovering on either side of the doorway, showing some kinduv feed of people protesting at the gates and, I’m guessing, throughout the city; a floating crescent-shaped red and white stone table; and two occupied ridiculously elaborate cushions at the apex of the curve. The table is topped with enough polished red bowls of untouched steaming colorful broths, ripe fruits, and meats to feed a whole camp, and two women are kneeling on their pillows.
    The queen, rubbing her temples, and a young woman with long braided hair and rich dark skin, leaning toward her and speaking quietly.
    I skid to a stop. The queen stares at me with a shocked, wide gaze, her hands frozen on her temples and her painted bronze lips slightly parted. There’s a huge, furry red lump next to them. I step toward them and the door slams open behind me. Something hard and heavy crashes into my back, slamming me into the ground. My cheek smashes into the rough tile. My head throbs and someone grabs my shoulder and yanks me onto my back.
    Jarek is straddling me. I throw my arms up over my face just in time—his fist slams into my forearms, my stomach. I try to rock him off, but he’s too heavy. He grabs my left arm with his free hand—his fist connects with my jaw, my nose, my neck. My head is roaring. My neck is hot and sticky and someone might be screaming, but my blood is thundering so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear anything above the drumming of my pulse.
    Then there’s a pause in the onslaught of his fists, and I throw myself forward, crashing on top of Jarek. He shoves me off, but I manage to spit a good amount of blood onto his pristine uniform, and that’s enough for me. At least for now.
    I’m on the ground again, but no one pushed me. I’m not sure how I got here, but my head—the pins and needles behind my eyes have become hot agony. I squeeze my eyes shut. Press my palms against my face. Try to breathe. Red-hot pokers are stabbing the backs of my eyeballs and it’s too much to bear. Every pound of my pulse is a hammer on my skull.
    Someone is shouting the word for doctor. Then several people are yelling and I need to tell them to shut up, I need to tell them my eyes might be melting out of my skull. I need to tell them they can shoot me now if they’d like—in fact, I’d prefer it.
    A sound like a dying animal rips through the air and the shouting gets louder and the noise is horrific—it grates against my throat and sets my skull hotter. It needs to stop; it’s making it worse, that horrible, piercing noise.
    Is it me?
    I clamp my mouth shut and the noise becomes a muffled groan and somehow my knees got up by my chest and I’m on my side and my face is wet with blood and tears.
    Someone takes my shoulder and pulls me onto my back. Hands hold down my arms and the pressure off my eyes makes it worse—it’s like my hands were holding back the flood of flames. Without their pressure on my eyelids, the pain rushes forward, soaking my eyeballs in acid. I’m not sure if I’m screaming or crying or