Reactive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 1)

by Becky Moynihan

  Something felt different . . .

  I groaned as the reason filtered into my fog-addled brain.

  Bren.

  No, not just Bren. Bren and me.

  No!

  It was my first day as a trainer. That was it.

  Another more sobering thought struck me: I was probably going to get him killed.

  What are you up to now, Renold?

  I wasn’t trainer material. I couldn’t even get the village dogs to sit on command. I hissed as I rolled off the bed, the action pulling at my back’s fresh bandages. At least the wounds had stopped bleeding.

  The room was especially chilly this morning and I threw on a black sleeveless top and cropped pants as fast as my shaking fingers would allow. What I needed was warmth flowing through my veins and adrenaline pumping strong in my stiff muscles. Maybe then I’d feel brave enough to face my new student.

  Flipping my head upside down, I gathered my hair into a high ponytail, all the while watching the bear’s tooth dangling in front of my face. At the thought of Bren seeing it, I slipped the tooth underneath my shirt. Before leaving the room, I swiped last night’s apple from my bedside table.

  I made my way to the gym on the ground floor, the only soul awake at this ridiculously early hour. I flicked on the room’s light switch and set my apple down, carefully contorting my body into a stretch as the bare bulbs groggily winked to life. Straightening, I breathed in the stench of stale human sweat, overshadowed by the sweet sound of silence.

  Being an early riser had its perks.

  My callused hands picked up a steel cable jump rope, the cool, heavy weight promising a rigorous warmup. I stopped counting after fifty cycles, lost to the mindless rhythm of flexing and hopping. My injuries were pushed aside as my body warmed. When sweat trickled down my temples, I tossed the rope aside and lunged into a defensive stance, an imaginary opponent in front of me.

  But the face lacked definition.

  I closed my eyes, conjuring an image of Lars. Nah, not today. A stronger face appeared, framed by dark brown hair. Gold eyes solidified the apparition until I could easily believe he was there in the room with me. Bren. My lips curved wickedly as I opened my eyes, keeping his likeness clear in my thoughts.

  With a quick twist, my fist was in his stomach. I could almost hear the pained grunt as air left his lungs. He came at me but was too slow. My arm blocked his blow. I rained an uppercut into his jaw, knocking his teeth together. As he staggered, I wrenched my leg around and firmly planted a foot into his gut.

  And the giant toppled like a felled tree.

  I raised my fists as the crowd roared.

  “Is that me on the floor?”

  A high-pitched squeak ripped from my throat and I jerked around. Gah, the apparition has come to life! I looked at the ground behind me, my imaginary foe nowhere to be seen. Closing my eyes, I bit back a groan. That meant . . .

  Reluctantly, I looked up at the real Bren, his face a mask of amusement. My stomach dropped. Thank the stars, my face was already red from exertion because the flames of embarrassment had taken up residence there. As my lips pursed, I pointed at him. “You didn’t see or hear anything. Got it?”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender and chuckled softly. “Got it, boss. I must have dreamt it.”

  “No. You’re not allowed to dream up stuff like that, either.” His eyebrows rose, and I changed the subject before he could pick apart what I had just said. “Why are you up so early, anyway? Couldn’t sleep?” I finally noticed what he was wearing: gray sweatpants and a black shirt that hugged his muscular frame in a distracting way. Stop looking, stupid! I refocused on his face.

  “I usually start my workout routine before anyone else wakes up. I enjoy the solitude and silence.” Great. We had something in common. His eyes slid down my body and a flare of self-consciousness made my arms twitch. “I didn’t peg you for a morning person.” His mouth stretched into a grin.

  “I’m not,” I said flatly, giving in to the urge to cross my arms. “Morning people are creepy.” I inched my way around him toward the exit.

  “I don’t mind if you stay. And I won’t talk if that helps.” His words gave me pause. “Besides, downing a real opponent would be much more satisfying than an imaginary one, don’t you think?”

  Swiveling, I arched a brow. “Volunteering?”

  Bren smiled, his eyes full of mirth. “Definitely.”

  I cracked my knuckles, then squared off with him. “Okay, I’m game. But this is a lesson between a student and trainer. You can’t tell anyone we sparred outside of the training fields.” This was dangerous. What we were about to do was technically against the rules.

  Bren only flashed his teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He crooked a finger in a “come-hither” gesture. “Show me what you got, teacher.”

  Gladly. A ping of excitement tickled my palms and I forgot about everything else.

  I threw a real punch at his stomach. He blocked and quickly lunged at me. I barely slipped past his counterpunch, but the closer proximity worked to my benefit. In and out I darted, landing a kidney shot before he could grab me.

  Bren grunted, and I grinned at the sound. Music to my ears. “You’re quick,” he puffed.

  “I have to be.” I aimed a swift kick at his lower stomach. Maybe a little too low. With surprising speed, he caught my foot. I jumped, rotating my body up and over until he dropped his hold. Upon landing, my foot lashed out again, this time for a leg sweep.

  He easily dodged me, and I rolled a safe distance away, ignoring the sharp pull of my bandages.

  “You’re not so slow yourself,” I grumbled, studying his body language. Would he attack next?

  A split second after he faked a low jab, his other fist went for my face. My upper body arched backward. His large knuckles nicked the tip of my chin as his forearm swept past my head. He was wide open. Poor guy, I almost felt sorry for him. Pivoting sideways, I slipped inside his guard again and brought my knee up into his groin. Hard.

  Bren exhaled sharply, curling forward.

  Game over.

  I shook my head and tried not to grin. And failed.

  All of a sudden, fingers latched onto my wrist, yanking me off balance. My legs were kicked out from beneath me. And then I was falling.

  Ooph!

  My butt smacked into the worn floor mat, followed by my spine and skull. Oxygen eluded me as I gaped at the ceiling. Ouch. The hand still holding my wrist pulled me up and then shifted to my shoulder when I swayed.

  “Sorry.” Bren smirked, not looking sorry in the least. “I couldn’t resist. You were all lined up for the perfect leg sweep.”

  I managed to shuffle backward and dislodge his hand from my shoulder. “So, it’s like that, huh?”

  “Yes, it’s like that.”

  “Fine. Game on.” Why did I say that out loud? Idiot!

  “Good.” He looked far too pleased about this whole thing. “Looking forward to it, trainer.”

  It was then I noticed he had something in his hand. Something red, shiny, and . . .

  “Is that my apple?”

  He lifted the object high, which was indeed my beautiful red apple. “Oh, this?” He brought it to his nose and sniffed. Sniffed! “Mmm, breakfast is so far away and this smells really good.”

  In dismay, I watched as a mischievous glint danced in his eyes.

  “Don’t. You. Dare,” I warned, my voice a quiet threat.

  Something changed in his expression then. Something . . . intense. “One thing you should know about me, little bird. I. Always. Dare.”

  And, with that, he took a large bite out of my glorious apple, the sound of teeth sinking into the fleshy fruit a slap to my face. I gasped in horror at the exaggerated wet, smacking noises he made while chewing, looking for all the world like a man who had won a challenge.

  I sucker-punched him.

  Tiny apple chunks sprayed from his mouth as he bent over, coughing on a laugh. I pounced and wrestled the half-
eaten fruit from his fingers.

  “And you should know something about me,” I said, and Bren watched as my teeth ripped into the apple’s flesh. I finished my declaration with a wad of fruit in my cheek. “I don’t share food.”

  Bren had received training before. Lots of it. And, after only a few days, he and Stalin were the best of friends. I tried not to be bitter as I watched him lean on the training track’s fence and scratch the beast’s nose with casual ease.

  I was bitter.

  Besides being a capable rider, he was funny, way too attractive for his own good, and an idiot. He turned heads wherever he went. I hated him for it—all of it. People now noticed me, too. I could no longer stay hidden when a big, giant oaf trailed after me the entire day. My mental walls were the only thing keeping me sane and, even then, Bren seemed to enjoy tapping on them, occasionally prodding and poking.

  Somehow, I kept my riotous emotions locked away. Most of the time. But it was getting harder. Especially when he threw me off guard with random nonsense comments.

  “You know,” he drew out the last word and I braced for impact, “you’re not very chipper in the mornings. You should try coffee. It works wonders.”

  I stifled an eye-roll. The growing habit was starting to wear on my eye sockets. “What’s coffee?”

  It was as if I had asked what planet we were on. His face morphed into absolute shock.

  “You—Wait a minute here. You don’t know what coffee is?”

  I’ll admit that his gaping expression almost put a smile on my face, it was that comical.

  “If you haven’t noticed,” I said, arching a brow, “I don’t exactly leave the city much. Or at all, actually. So, whatever this ‘coffee’ stuff is you have on the outside . . . no, I haven’t tried it.”

  “Hmm,” was his reply. And then again. “Hmm. Someday, Lune. Someday I’m gonna find a way to get you coffee. And then you’ll see. You’ll see how magical mornings can be.”

  This time I did roll my eyes. “Mornings are only magical in fairytales. Do you have your communicator in?”

  Bren stuck a finger in his ear. “Yup. I can hear everything loud and clear, even the grinding sound your teeth make every time I talk.”

  My eyes narrowed and he grinned.

  I instructed the control booth operator to amp up the race track’s obstacle settings to difficult, then mounted Freedom. After the horrific spill she and I had taken earlier this week, my confidence had dipped as well. I always got back in the saddle and pushed past the fear but, this time, I had an eagle-eyed student cataloguing my every move. He would learn from my example and, therefore, steal my techniques. Maybe I wouldn’t show him everything I knew. After all, how would Renold know if I kept some of my training a secret from his prized new citizen?

  Bren looked up at me from his position near the gate, and I tapped my earbud. “Watch, listen, and learn, student. Racing is one thing, but overcoming the obstacles is a whole different game. Take notes because you’re next.” I made the last part sound ominous, then added, “But don’t worry. I’ll man the controls and put the settings on easy.”

  “Why does that give me no comfort?” he muttered.

  I nudged Freedom through the gate, snickering as we entered the track field. It wasn’t my fault that he bit off way more than he could chew. They were called Trials for a reason.

  “Remember,” I said to Bren through the earbud, “the charger takes their cues from the rider. Warn them of upcoming danger before it’s too late.”

  “Roger that.”

  Roger who? You say the weirdest things, Brendan Bearon.

  I signaled the operator, swirling an index finger in the air.

  “It’s go time. Ready, girl?” Freedom’s left ear swiveled in reply. Her muscular body tensed. Ready.

  A short buzzer went off.

  Freedom leapt into a controlled gallop, fast but not too fast. We both needed our wits about us in this dance with death. My mind cleared away cluttering thoughts and made way for lightning instincts. The dull twinges of pain coming from my back were pushed aside. I saw Freedom’s head and the track—all else disappeared.

  From the left came a faint tick, tick.

  “Gee!” I commanded. The pressure from my knee had Freedom sidling to the right. Poof! A burst of air hit us from the vents in the inner wall and we hunkered down, powering through. Any closer to the left and we would have been blown off our feet.

  Snap! Without looking, I knew what was coming next.

  “High!” I lifted the reins, signaling Freedom. A three-foot-tall hurdle spiked out of the ground. The seasoned charger barely broke stride, neatly tucking her front legs beneath her as she pushed off with massive haunches. My stomach rose and crashed with the jump.

  Before I could catch my breath, I heard another noise—this time a sliding whir. “Low!” A thick pole shot across our path, level with my chest.

  Freedom ducked beneath the object with ease, but I couldn’t lean forward in time. My upper body tilted to the side so that it dangled over empty air. I passed underneath the pole only to see another, this one even lower, coming up fast.

  I had to trust that Freedom saw the new obstacle as I focused on righting myself before the inevitable jump . . . or crash. Blindly, I reached forward, tangling my fingers into her serrated mane. I pulled until my arms were able to wrap around her thick neck, chin tucked into my shoulder.

  Normally, I loved the feeling of jumping a hurdle, but in the precarious position I was currently in, not so much.

  As we returned to earth, I felt the landing in every bone.

  And then my boot slipped from the stirrup. I cried out as Freedom’s bristly hide dug into my arms; her mane tore at my gloveless palms. With a growl, I heaved my body upright and readjusted my boot. But the action cost me. Sticky warmth coated my hands, making the reins slippery in my grasp. I tightened my grip on the blood-spattered leather.

  “Lune!”

  The shout in my ear had me looking up. Just in time, too.

  “Crap.”

  Bursts of red-hot flame shot from the ground, several feet into the air. I squeezed the reins, asking for Freedom’s complete attention. Then we danced with fire.

  “That was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.”

  I spun at the feel of warm air tickling my ear, the action effectively boxing me in—Freedom’s wide shoulder at my back and Bren standing way too close in front of me. We had finished the run fully intact, minus a charred hole in my right sleeve. I hadn’t even felt the fire licking at the material.

  Now I found myself in the dusty track stables, sandwiched between two forces. My brain switched off at the overwhelming proximity, and I stared at him stupidly.

  He knew. He very well knew what he was doing and how it affected me.

  It was written all over that smug, pompous face.

  I slapped a hand to his chest and pushed him back a step. Or rather, he let me push him. My palm stuck to his leather vest and when I pulled away, a wet, sucking noise reminded me of my injuries. I winced. “Ugh.”

  Fingers feathered against the inside of my wrist and I jumped.

  “May I?” Bren asked, and my attention shifted from his fingers still touching my skin to his questioning gaze.

  I stood, rooted in place, like a cornered animal. I never let anyone tend my injuries, except for the doctors and nurses in the infirmary. I didn’t trust anyone else.

  But I found myself nodding, warily. Had my brain fallen out onto the track?

  “Sit.” He pointed at an overturned bucket, and I stiffly lowered myself onto it.

  As with all the training fields, first aid kits were plentiful. He unclipped one from a support beam.

  His long legs crouched on either side of mine and I felt boxed in again. He gently flipped my hand palm up. If he wanted to, he could easily snap my arm with that large hand of his. My muscles coiled tight as I watched his brow furrow in concentration. I remembered the knife still hidden in my pa
nts pocket, wondering if I would need to use it.

  “What are you doing?” My words were clipped, strained. I clenched my teeth.

  He flicked his gaze to mine. “Doing what I do best.”

  Really? I itched to push him away. “And what’s that?”

  He raised a bottle of rubbing alcohol over my bloody palm. “Fixing things. Now hold still. This is going to sting a little. Okay, maybe a lot.”

  “What great bedside manner you have, Dr. Br—” I sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation of a dozen bees stinging my hand. My fingers reflexively curled around the pain and I watched in horror as Bren threaded his fingers through mine.

  I stopped moving. Stopped breathing.

  And then buzzing warmth soothed the pain away.

  “Your doctor orders you to breathe, Lune.”

  “I am breathing,” I ground out. “And you’re not my doctor. I just find applying bandages with one hand to be quite awkward.”

  He cracked a smile and I wanted to knock it clean off. “Why don’t you wear gloves?”

  I snatched my hand back. Was he judging me? Judging my scars? “Control is more important than a few scars.”

  “Hmm.” He stared at the injured hand now cradled in my lap as if hoping it could give him better answers than my mouth. Finally, he said, “I think scars reveal a lot about a person. They show that you’ve been through tough times but came out stronger than before. They show that you’ve worked hard, harder than most.” He raised his eyes to mine and I was trapped in their snare. “And I think a person should never be ashamed of their scars. Wear them with pride.”

  He did it again.

  Strung together words that felt so utterly wrong in this decrepit city. But he believed them. I could see that in his open expression.

  He slowly reached for my hand to finish bandaging it, and I let him.

  “Can you hear me, Bren?”

  “Aye aye, Captain.”

  “Where on earth do you come up with these weird sayings?”

  Chuckling came from my earbud. “You need to get out more, little bird.”

  “That’s so not funny. And stop calling me that.”