The Gender Lie (The Gender Game #3) Bella Forrest (most read book in the world TXT) 📖

Then I heard the distinctive sound of Desmond’s voice, rich with disdain, like sugared venom. “Violet Bates,” she announced. “I would like to invite you to meet me in the training room. That is… if you’d ever like to see your precious boyfriend again.”

The icy hand of fear crept down my spine, but then I felt a bolt of pure annoyance. I let out a bitter laugh, startling Tim. He gave me a look of concern, but I waved it off, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “Sorry, Tim,” I said after the moment of laughter had passed. “It’s just… we’re never going to be those people who get to sit in the spectators’ stands, y’know?”

Tim thought about it a second, and then smirked back at me. “Nope,” he agreed. “But… not boring.”

“Not boring,” I muttered as I weighed my options. Given Desmond’s message, she wasn’t likely to give me a lot of time to do much. I looked at Tim, who was watching me closely, his face shark-like in anticipation. I rubbed my temples. The options weren’t good. I needed to get to the training room.

But Tim didn’t. Neither did Ms. Dale. If I could just get them out, maybe even using the dreaded ventilation system to help get them past Desmond and the Liberators, then they stood a chance. Viggo and I would have to find some other clever means of escape.

“Tim—you need to get Ms. Dale and run. Use the ventilation shafts to move if worst comes to very worst and keep heading up. You have to go down to that room again, and then follow the other hall. There’s a ladder that will take you up.”

He shook his head, denial stamped on his features. “No,” he said stubbornly.

“Tim, I can go help Viggo, or I can stay and make sure you get out alive. If I go and help Viggo, then I have a chance of saving him.”

“How?”

In response, I pulled out a pistol—another object I had pilfered from the supply room. I had tucked it into one of the many dangling bags on the harness, and then slid it out when Viggo wasn’t looking. I hadn’t been sure he would approve at the time. The ammunition was live—meaning that it would kill.

Tim’s eyes went wide as he stared at the gun. “Oh,” he replied.

I tucked the gun back against the small of my back. “Go,” I said, urging him to the door. “And don’t forget Samuel,” I reminded him. It was an unnecessary reminder—the dog followed him everywhere.

Suddenly the same crackle filled the air. I turned, half-expecting to see Desmond right behind me on the ramp, but she wasn’t. Still, a bead of sweat dripped from my forehead.

“Ms. Bates, you only have a few precious minutes left to save him,” she said, practically singing the words in her triumph.

I took a step onto the ramp. “Do it, Tim,” I ordered, my voice coming out harshly.

I didn’t look back as I marched down the row. He wouldn’t argue with my back to him, and I didn’t have time to entertain his argument, even if he planned to. Viggo’s life was on the line—again—and if Desmond thought she was going to take him from me when I had just gotten him back, she had another thing coming.

Namely, a bullet.

I threw open the door to the stairwell and marched up the stairs. I could already hear hushed whispers filtering down the stairwells. Someone was standing with the door wide open, waiting for me.

I wasn’t sure that she had any idea where I had been, but if she had, I prayed that Tim hurried before someone caught him and Ms. Dale. I took a deep breath and forced my face to relax. I straightened my spine and squared my shoulders, then continued up the stairs.

Stepping through the doorframe, I nodded at the Liberator who was holding it open. I vaguely remembered her—I thought her name was Phyllis, or maybe Phoebe—and I was a little surprised when she nodded back. So was she, given the flush of pink across her high cheekbones, and the speed at which she pulled the door closed behind me, avoiding eye contact.

Her reaction reminded me that not everyone in the room was bad. They were just being misled by a very disturbed individual.

The same disturbed individual who was standing in the middle of the largest patch of sand with a man kneeling in front of her.

I marched through the crowd, who regarded me with curiosity, disdain, and some outright hatred. The last came from Meera, who shouted something incoherent at me before shoving me hard. I was surprised by her vehemence, until I remembered Solomon. Things had been strained, but she had tried. I guessed that was over now.

Her shove caused me to lose balance and I fell to the ground on my hands and knees. A few people cheered, but the rest remained silent, waiting for the scene to unfold before them. Given how Desmond had gotten everyone down here—likely by sending them messages through their handhelds—it would prove to be theatrical.

I drew in a lungful of air and glanced over to where Meera was standing when a flash of movement caught my eye. I lifted my gaze and saw Nissa standing practically on top of me, her face marred by a frown, which intensified as our eyes met. She took a step back, and I felt hope crumble in my chest.

Convincing these people that I wasn’t their enemy was going to be impossible. Desmond had spent years with them—she knew them better than they knew themselves, it seemed. She had molded them all into believing in her, creating a sense of devotion that would be impossible to overcome in these circumstances.

Her plan wasn’t a secret: They had come to terms with it already. And who could blame them? They were the outcasts of societies that had wronged them, and Desmond represented a