Free Broken Wings (Cruel and Beautiful World, Book One 1) by L. Stoddard Hancock

curtains she could tell that the sun was already setting. Xander had not come back yet.
    With a deep sigh, she stood up and walked into the living room. Her feet tangled in something and she looked down to see the black sweater. She picked it up and ran the fabric through her fingers. It really was nice. Much better feeling than the silk pajamas. With a quick removal of her coat, Deryn lifted the sweater and put it on over her head. Her arms were already starting to feel better from that medicine, but she still needed to rub that paste on them.
    Once the sweater was on, she hung up the coat in the guestroom closet, but not before emptying its pockets. She put everything in a row on the dresser. The knife. The map. The chocolate bar. This was all she owned. All she had to her name. Two gifts and a free map.
    Heading to the kitchen, Deryn stopped near the bookshelf and noticed a frame on it with a photo of Xander and his parents. He couldn't have been older than ten, judging by how small he was. It was funny to think that when this photo was taken she'd been living freely in a village  called Redwood with her father and brother. It would still be another five years before the guards came to their small village in their gasmasks, taking her, Dakota and several others in the dead of night, moving too quickly to even give their parents a chance to fight. Still, her father tried. Her brother Talon, who'd been taken two years earlier, was the one ordered to lead the invasion, and even through his mask she could still see the pain in his eyes.
    For six months they were kept in quarantine, left with nothing to entertain themselves but each other. At the time she'd thought there could be nothing worse than living in that small space with a dozen others, all as bored and frightened as she was.
    How wrong she had been.
    Deryn was just about to put the photo facedown when she took a good look at Xander's mother standing there with her husband and son, looking so genuinely happy. She died because she wanted to protect Xander from the dangers of an ensuing war. Deryn couldn't be angry with her.
    But she still loathed Atticus, and there was no way she could have his cold eyes staring at her every day. After finding some blank paper in the desk, she tore off a small piece and put it over Atticus's figure. Now only Xander and his mother were visible.
    Once that was done, Deryn finally made it to the kitchen, stopping only briefly to put the slippers on her frozen feet. She looked through the cabinets, trying to find something decent to eat. Xander didn't have a lot, but he at least had everything she needed to make a sandwich.
    As soon as her sandwich was finished, Deryn stared longingly at the open blue box on the counter. That cupcake looked delicious and she really wanted it. But she had already put on the sweater and slippers. How much more of her integrity could she compromise?
    After an innocent lick of frosting, Deryn huffed and closed the box. She went over to the couch and sat down.
    "Oh!" she exclaimed pleasantly as she sank into it.
    Xander had always seemed like one of those people who owned furniture for style, not comfort, but this was actually quite nice. Plushy but slightly firm.
    She sat there for a while, eating her sandwich and staring at the door. When it didn't open she grew frustrated and started pacing around the apartment. Eventually, she grabbed a blanket she found in a closet and wrapped it around her shoulders, slid open the glass door and crawled onto the balcony.
    She stayed hunched down where no one could see her, sitting against the wall of the building while snuggled in the blanket. She could hear the two men who lived downstairs chatting animatedly and quickly learned their names were Bronson and Quigley. They were actually quite funny and seemed like two people whose company she would enjoy. But then they were joined by a third.
    "Oi! Ruby! What's with this notice we got about a fucking curfew? What am I, a