A/N: Thank you so much for all of your reviews! There is something up with Fanfiction's reviews right now so I can't respond, but they mean a lot! I love Maxon's character and I love to hate Clarkson, so this has been really fun to write! I have at least a chapter or two left still to go, it is mostly already written, but I really spend a lot of time trying to think everything through in Maxon's perspective. For those of you asking if I am going to write this through the One... Yes! Sort of :) I have been working on another story which would be in Maxon... AND **drumroll** ASPEN's *gasp* POV from when Aspen and America are caught in the hall through the end of the book. I was inspired by America thinking in the epilogue that she would never understand what had passed between them... Let's find out! It is called "Yours to Break" and the first chapter will be published momentarily.

As I stumbled down the back staircase to the infirmary, I thought of how I would tell my America that she was going home. My time with her had been a disaster from the start and my head was screaming to me that I should have sent her home long ago. But my heart… the thought of being back to the beginning and trying to fall in love all over again… it was overwhelming. Sure, Kriss was nice and would be a steady and good choice. But the passion and aching I felt when I was around America had yet to be felt around any of the other girls.

Checking in both directions to make sure no one was around, I snuck into the hospital room where had been storing my metal box. Suddenly, I fell against the wall, recent events too much for me to take. I felt like punching the wall, but that was too much effort. The image of myself kneeling on the floor was so embarrassing. I'm the prince and I couldn't stop him from sending America home. With a sinking feeling, I opened the door back into the hallway and immediately groaned as I hit something, my legs weakening with the reopening of my wounds, almost dropping me to the floor. I looked up to see America staring wide-eyed at me. The ache was intense, but it was unexpectedly radiating from my heart. Standing before me is the woman I loved, the woman I had imagined spending the rest of my life with. The woman that could no longer be mine.

"What are you doing out of your room?" I asked, picking up the box I had dropped slowly and carefully, hoping she wouldn't guess of its contents.

"I was going to the gardens. I'm trying to figure out if I did something stupid or not."

I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes briefly and thinking of my blood-filled suitcoat. "Oh, I can assure you it was stupid."

"Do you need help?"

"No," I said quickly, looking to the floor. I tried to stand up a little straighter, to look less on the verge of collapse. "Just heading to my room. And I suggest you do the same."

"Maxon." The sad plea in her voice made me finally look into her eyes. Through all the pain she was causing me, the love I felt for her was never going to be beaten out of me. "I'm so sorry. I was mad, and I wanted to … I don't even know anymore. And you were the one who said there were perks to being a One, that you could change things."

I rolled my eyes. "You're not a One." There was a silence between us. I was so frustrated at myself for pushing her away, and at her for betraying me. "Even if you were, did you not pay attention at all to the way I'm doing things? It's quiet and small. That's how it has to be for now. You can't go on television complaining about the way things are run and expect to have my father's, or anyone's, support."

"I'm sorry!" She cried. "I'm so, so sorry."

I paused for a moment, thinking of all that had happened and wondering if there was any way to undo the damage of the last hour, but once again failing. "I'm not sure that…"

We heard the shouting at the same time. I turned and started walking, America following behind. God-awful timing for a rebel attack. How was I going to make it to the saferoom? How would I survive the hours in that room with my wounds untended, my father smugly watching my torture?

A guard was shot in front of us, and I pulled America behind me with my bad shoulder. Black spots danced in front of my eyes as a spasm overcame me.

"Your Majesty!" a guard called, racing over to us. "You have to get downstairs now!"

He gruffly turned me around and shoved me away. I cried out in agony and dropped the metal box again.

"I won't make it," I said, clutching the wall. I could feel the sweat pouring down my neck, the blackness waiting to envelop me.

"Yes, sir," the guard said grimly. "This way."

I instructed the guard to let my mother know I was alive before the safe room door slammed closed, leaving me alone with America.