Page 2 of Born for Silk
What I was born for, built for.
“I know that look. You’re only eighteen. What would you have to say to the Common anyway?” Kong asks, reading me.
I look at him. “Eighteen is a man.”
“No.” He shakes his head against a single laugh. “Your father is ninety-three and still has the appearance of a fifty-year-old. That’s pure Xin De genetics. You are no man. That is a man.”
Disdain climbs into my voice. “I know his age.”
He nods toward Turin—my father. “Look at him, boy.”
Boy… My lips curl into a snarl. He is the only being I can stand calling me that.
“Why?” I argue. He is also the only one I argue with because our respect is mutual.
Despite my age, he listens to me.
“Because”—he moves closer, care for my wellbeing unhidden in his frustration— “it’s my damn job to keep you alive. And it’s not the fucking Common or Endigos that will get you killed. It’ll be at the hands of your own father if you let that slip through your mouth.”
I lift a brow. “Let what through?”
“What you’re thinking. I would die for you, boy. I would fight your father for you. Have him rip my head straight off my shoulders. Don’t put me in that position. Your father might be one of the last pure Xin De before The Trade introduced The Revive. Your mother was only half. You won’t be as massive as him.”
I frown at Kong. “I’ll be bigger than him.”
“Do you have the prince?” A Guard calls from the front where four others prepare—pulling on leather armour and loading their automatic rifles—to exit through the hatches as the vehicle chews along the dirt floor, slowing and easing into place.
“My mother is two-thirds Xin De,” I whisper as the Guards bustle ahead of us, heated conversations and readiness in the air. “Turin saw to it. He told me he wouldn’t allow The Trade to mix my blood too much.”
Kong folds his thick arms over his chest. “Still not pure, boy.”
Fucker.
Sneering, I look through the scope.
The Common duck from the giant tank tracks. Murmuring their awe, they circle the two colossal military vehicles, creating a crowd around them. They gape, their eyes the size of saucers set into semi-translucent flesh, blue veins snaking beneath pale skin.
Common men and women have always reminded me of fish. I wonder what their skin feels like. Soft? Hot or cold? Or both? So fragile the world dictates the temperature?
Nothing like mine; my skin is always warm, engineered for the world. A thick sheath with compact molecules to combat the wind, endure the heat, deter the cold, block the sand—survive. My skin is designed to survive.
I glance at Kong. He grins at me, before fisting my leather chest plates, reminding me I need them even with my engineered genes. People want me dead, and a bullet will still pierce my skin.
“Do I?” he asks. “Do I have the prince?”
I relent. “My mouth is sealed.”
“Will you keep it that way?”
“Ready,” a Guard calls, and the rest hustle through the hatches. They quickly create a protective ring around Turin as he climbs into view.
I listen. Even from in here, I swear I hear the entire community gasp. Kong is right—Turin is a single-man army. Designed for battle. A warlord.
Twenty bullets already float deep within his tissue, and he is twenty-five percent metal after several wars and surgical enhancements.
I begin climbing from the tank, watching the interaction outside as I go.
“Bless you.” A tiny Common man steps forward to shake Turin’s hand, finding his own disappear into the massive mitt. He tries to steel himself, but Turin of The Strait shadows him.