“I make no promises.”
I groaned. “Focus.”
“I’m focused.”
“So, I’m going to talk you through each obstacle, okay? No worries, I won’t toss any water at you. This time.”
“Smart aleck.”
“Once again. Weird saying. Go ahead and nudge Stalin into a gallop, nice and steady.”
I made sure they weren’t going too fast, then let my finger hover over a button on the control panel. To say I was nervous was an understatement. I’d never been allowed inside the booth before, let alone given control over the obstacle course panel. It felt like playing God. Was I a benevolent god or a vengeful god? Possibly both.
“Okay, get ready. I’m deploying a two-foot-hurdle in three, two, one—” I pushed the button. They cleared the hurdle no problem. I grunted. “You’re a natural at this.” I hate you.
“Or maybe I just have an awesome teacher.”
I bit my lip. Ugh. He was impossible. “I’m fairly certain a few days in my presence can’t account for your skills. I mean, I am amazing, but . . .”
His laugh had me smirking, despite myself.
I surveyed the many options before me, glancing at the harder ones maliciously. No, better not to kill the student on his first obstacle course run. “Alright, your next obstacle will be spears randomly jutting out of the ground.”
“Say what?” he yelled.
“Calm yourself, little student. Just trust me. I’ll tell you where to go. Hopefully,” I whispered the last word, but his snort revealed that he heard. My finger hovered over the button. “In three, two, one—” Push. “Go left! Hard right, all the way to the wall! Slight left. Straighten out. And you’re through! See? Easy as pie.”
Bren whooped in my ear. “Cherry pie is my favorite!”
I shook my head. Adrenaline must make him stupider than usual. “Next is a double jump. Simple wood beams. The second beam is higher than the first. You ready?”
“Ready, spaghetti!”
My jaw clenched. “Focus, Mr. Bearon, or I’ll accidentally switch the controls to difficult.” He shut up at that. “Here it comes in three, two, one—”
I pushed and watched as three beams sprung into the air. Three? I scrambled at the controls, looking for an undo button. But there wasn’t one. “Crap!”
“What?”
“There’s a-a-a beam! Another one! A third one! Watch out!”
My inarticulate warning failed to prepare him for the surprise obstacle. It was a low beam, one that needed to be ducked under. Bren didn’t duck. It struck him in the chest, swept him right off Stalin’s back, and he fell.
I heard a forceful expelling of breath in my earbud, then silence.
“Bren?”
No reply.
I was running before my brain could tell me what to do, hoisting my body up and over the track fence because the gate was too far away.
“Bren!” This time I heard it. A slight quiver in my voice. Panic.
I knew this was a bad idea from the start. I wasn’t capable of taking care of anyone else. I had killed my student!
My boots skimmed over the track, barely touching the packed dirt. And still, I wasn’t going fast enough. Please, please, please, I inwardly chanted, heaving for breath as I finally reached his unmoving form. My knees dug into dirt and rock. I ground to a halt by his side.
“Please don’t be dead,” I gasped out, straddling his too-still body. I leaned down, my ear pressed to his chest. And quieted my erratic breathing.
There!
Right when I heard the strong heartbeat, he wrapped his arms around my back and flipped me underneath him. I was the one on the ground now, looking up at a grinning Bren.
I went rigid. Deathly still. Finally, my brain caught up, putting together the pieces.
He had played me.
My earlier relief turned to roiling rage and, in a flash, I whipped my head up, aiming my forehead at his vulnerable nose. It met a hard cheekbone instead.
I screamed like a crazed feline. My hips knocked him off balance and I reversed our position. Straddling him once again, I jammed a forearm under his chin, pressing none-too-gently on his windpipe.
The only sound was my hoarse breathing as I sunk daggers into his eyes with my own.
“Don’t ever do that again! Do you understand me? I thought you were dead!”
The amusement leached from his face.
His arm moved and I tensed, ready for more, but I felt a roughened palm scrape against my cheek. Felt long fingers slide into my hair. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think what to do. Something in my expression must have changed because his lips formed a crooked smile. “You care.”
I pushed off his chest and scrambled away, certain I had just caught fire. I needed space to clear the fog in my head—calm the galloping beneath my sternum.
On autopilot, my body whirled and put much-needed distance between me and him. Then stopped. Marched right back. Jabbed a shaky finger at him. “You! You need to stop. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t a game! People die doing this! It’s dangerous.” My voice was shaking now and I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting for control. When I opened them again, he was standing. Watching carefully.
Embarrassed at my impassioned outburst, I turned away. Fingers trailed lightly over my wrist and I paused but kept my head down. I was mortified. And mad. So, so mad. He was making me lose my mind!
“Lune . . . look at me. Please.” It was the last word that did it. No one ever used that word anymore. Not like that. The use of it, directed toward me, was foreign. And nice. It still wasn’t easy raising my eyes to his. But, when I did, his emotions were on full display. Raw and real. An aching lump lodged in my throat at the sight of such sadness and remorse. I didn’t want to see those emotions directed at me.
Not from him.
It made things . . . confusing.
He spoke again and those emotions became words. “I know this is dangerous. I know it isn’t a game. I know the stakes are high, but . . . but when I’m with you, I forget about those things. And all I can see is a girl shouldering the world. And all I want is to put a smile on her face, make her laugh, and assure her that she’s not alone. But maybe that’s selfish of me. Maybe she has more at stake than I realize. And maybe she wants to be alone.”
He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, dark strands dropping over his forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said, barely a whisper.
A deafening silence settled between us. It was silent in my head, too. But the silence was almost peaceful. I could tell, by the tortured expression on his face, that he truly was sorry. I didn’t quite know what to do about it. Maybe if I said something, those lines between his eyebrows would erase.
I nodded slowly. “Okay. Just don’t give me a heart attack again.”
The creases disappeared.
One week.
I’d managed to avoid the Faust Night training field and Elite Instructor Drake for seven solid days. As a tier five graduate and now a trainer myself, I was given a longer leash, no longer required to report every breath and eye blink. But, Bren needed more than hand-to-hand combat training. It was time to face the cut-throat mob.
“So, what’s your favorite weapon?” I asked him as we skirted the training field. Curious stares tracked us, and the invasion agitated my senses. Bren didn’t seem to notice their looks, or inspection.
“Guns.” No hesitation.
“Like a gun, gun? With bullets?”
The corners of his mouth quirked. “Yeah.”
“Well, we don’t have any of those in here. They’re forbidden. And only guards are allowed the use of volt guns. You’ll have to pick another weapon to practice with.”
Upon seeing my face, a pair of guards allowed us entrance into the Stahl Hall armory, no questions asked. Apparently, news of my trainer status had made the rounds. I pushed open the intricate, dark wood doors and stepped inside the white glass-domed room. Before the Trials, the long brick-and-glass build
ing used to house exotic flowers, plants, and trees, just for the enjoyment of looking at them. A glorified greenhouse.
“Behold: every man’s dream room.” I punctuated my announcement with a hand flourish. “Choose a weapon; but while doing so, drooling is discouraged. The tiles can get slippery.”
“Too late,” Bren murmured, brushing past me, eyes fixated on the walls. He walked in a circle, lips parted.
“Uh, do you need some privacy while you ogle the weapons?”
“Sure,” he said, absentmindedly.
“Do you think Lars is cute?”
“Uh-huh.”
My head fell back, and I stared through the glass ceiling to the cloudy sky above. Men and weapons. Hopeless.
As I watched his eyes worship each and every steel object, I realized we were going to be here for a while. I slid to the floor and began picking at my cuticles.
Minutes ticked by. Excruciating, snail-paced minutes.
“Soooo, see anything you like?” I droned.
“Yes.” When I looked to see where his gaze was, I about leapt out of my skin. He was looking at . . . me.
I didn’t know what game he was playing, but he needed to stop. Now. I couldn’t focus when he stared at me like—
“The su-yari.”
“Huh?” I blinked.
He hoisted a wicked-looking pole from the wall, over seven feet long with sharp blades on each end.
“Your weapon of choice is a . . . a stick?” I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. Eleven years ago, I had almost clocked his skull with a stick. If only I had been smart enough to do so. Oh, the irony.
He stared at me, eyes gradually narrowing as several emotions warred for dominance on his face. Would he laugh with me? Or would he—Oh, he was offended. Good. My shoulders shook harder. He spoke louder than normal, drowning out my laughter. “I’ll have you know, this Japanese straight spear was favored by the samurai. Perfect for close combat. It’s lighter than a sword, with farther reach, and it has two blades. I can fight multiple opponents at once.”
Samurai? I had no idea what that was. Yet another conversation that made me feel dumb. And so, I replied, “Overcompensating for something?”
He stilled. Slowly, his lips curled. Then his mouth opened. “You can’t judge a man by his—”
“Stop!” I yelled. “Don’t finish that sentence. Just don’t.”
He snickered. My answering glare said, I’ll shove that stick up your—I cut the thought off. Ugh. His expression smoothed, but a stupid mischievous light still twinkled in his eye.
With casual, precise movements, he twirled the spear in lazy figure-eights. “So, what’s your favorite weapon?” Although his voice was as relaxed as his actions, I detected a burning curiosity behind the question.
“My fists.”
“No, but really. What kind of weapon does the great Lune Tatum like to wield?”
“Sarcasm.”
He stopped twirling and gave me a long-suffering look.
“Oh fine,” I huffed and picked myself up off the floor. Ever so lightly, I trailed a finger over a row of glistening silver and onyx blades, their sharp beauty mesmerizing, until I paused in front of my twin daggers. They shone a burnished gold in the afternoon light. I hefted them both from the rack, their eleven-inch length perfect for maneuverability. Speed.
They molded to my grip like an intimate embrace.
I whipped around, doing my own version of a figure eight. Blindingly fast. The blades emitted a faint whistle. But I froze mid-swing when I caught sight of Bren’s stare.
He glanced away, throat convulsing. A quiet laugh huffed from him and he shook his head. Then he approached me, raising his eyes to mine. The intense look glued my feet to the marble floor.
Stars, what was happening?
He kept coming until my vision was full of him, until I caught a whiff of his unique scent, like pine and leather and sunshine. He was supposed to smell like fire and brimstone, not the smells that I—
Bren plucked the daggers from my limp hands. My swallow was louder than a slap in the too-quiet room. He inspected the detailed hilts while I worked on finding my heart again, which had somehow found its way up my esophagus.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
When I snuck a peek at his face, he was staring at me again. Warmth bloomed in my cheeks, flushing down my body. My chest tightened as I became hyper-aware of his nearness. My instincts screamed danger and I jerked back a step, hating that he was holding my weapons.
An intense wave of anger doused the foreign heat in my veins. And the . . . feelings. I shouldn’t feel anything but rage and bitterness toward the boy who stole my childhood. Who plagued my present and threatened to steal my future.
My competition.
In that moment, I had forgotten.
How had I forgotten something so important?
Maybe I was broken.
Maybe I was just a stupid hormonal girl who had a weakness for giant idiots.
“Bren?”
“Hm?”
“Don’t forget that beautiful things can be deadly.”
It was telling when an entire building was used solely for weapons instead of daily training sessions. Trainees were forced to practice outside at all times.
Strength.
Speed.
Precision.
The three defining goals of the Trials.
Apparently, these traits could only be achieved outdoors. Surrounding Faust Night’s flat training field was a stone wall level with my chest, cracked with age and covered in moss. Over two hundred years old and still standing, its endurance was used as an example on a weekly basis. “The Shrine of Strength,” the trainees called it.
Unfortunately, the wall was also used for discipline. At least, that’s what the Elite Instructor called his methods of punishment. As Bren and I stepped onto the field, my attention was drawn to the northwest corner that was reserved for these barbaric demonstrations. There, a large crowd circled around something.
Or someone.
I scanned the field and found a cluster of instructors on the far side, casually facing the other way. They knew. They knew what was happening amongst their students yet refused to stop it. Yet again.
In the middle of the circle was a hazing.
My pulse sped up and sent blood rushing to my head as memories of my own hazing darkened my thoughts. Many hazings, actually. If a trainee didn’t stand strong against the abuse of their peers and fell under the weight of jeers and physical blows, they lost. And the hazing would continue. Only when they remained upright under the onslaught, unwavering as the wall at their back, would the hazings stop.
I had endured them for years.
And now someone else was being tortured. I forced air down my tight throat. I shouldn’t interfere. I’d kept to myself for so long, avoiding all confrontation. And then, through the writhing mass of bodies, I saw a flash of dark red hair. Like my own. The owner was hunkered down on the ground. Like an animal.
A familiar emotion snapped into place. Rage.
I tried tamping down the feeling. Tried to back away. But Bren was behind me, and he was silently fuming too. I could almost feel the heat pouring off him as his jaw muscles bunched. The fact that this was affecting him, too, stirred something else awake in me. Don’t do it. You’ll form enemies. You’ll never make it to the Trials. My head turned away, then whipped toward Bren again.
“Hold these.” I shoved my daggers at him, barely waiting for him to catch them.
I didn’t think, didn’t let my overactive mind talk me out of what I was about to do. My instincts drove me onward through the grunts and curses, and past the hostile and surprised looks. Despite my reclusiveness, everyone knew me. Knew that I kept to myself and stayed out of trouble. The Supreme Elite’s obedient daughter.
Yet here I was, pushing toward the heart of the beast. And to the black ugliness that brewed distrust and detachment in every single trainee.
What was I doi
ng?
You’re painting a target on your back.
So be it.
I was sick of it all.
I broke through to the inner circle and there was Lars, the slimy devil, a sniffling human ball at his feet. He circled his prey, taunting, “How do you plan on contending in the Trials someday if you can’t even stay on your feet? Give up now. Admit defeat.” His boot connected with the child’s shin, eliciting a yelp of pain. My vision bled red.
“Lars!” I barked, striding forward.
He slowly raised his glittering eyes to mine, delight shining in their blackened depths.
“Well, well, well,” he crooned. “I knew you had a soft side, Mute. Took you long enough to show it. Come to save the day?” He swept his hands out and gestured to the dozens of onlookers surrounding us. “You’re highly outnumbered.”
I dared a swift look at the faces watching us. Cold. Blank. I was alone in this. Cowards, I wanted to hiss at them. Although I didn’t doubt that some of them would have Lars’s back if he called for aid.
“She has me.” Bren’s deep baritone rumbled through the silence. For once, I didn’t stiffen at the prospect of someone so close behind me.
Lars chortled, wholly unfazed. “She’s on the losing side, outsider. Sure that’s what you want?” When Bren gave a dismissive shrug, Lars whipped his hand up, jabbing a finger at us both. “Careful,” he sneered. “Rumors might start flying about your friendliness.”
I ignored the cheap threat, purposely bumping into his shoulder as I made for his latest victim. Quick as a striking serpent, he gripped my wrist, grinding and crushing the bones together until my hand went numb. I choked on the cry of pain searing my throat.
He yanked my body against his and I tasted the sour tang of disgust as his lips caressed my ear. “I did this for you. All for you,” he whispered.
I was too shocked by the words to react. But Bren shocked me most when he towered over us both—not touching, yet the heat radiating off him fanned my exposed skin. “Let her go. Now.”
Lars released me with a savage twist and I grimaced. “She’s not as strong as she seems. Think hard about who you want to align with, outsider.” His lithe frame slithered into the crowd.
Reactive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 1) Page 9
