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

by Becky Moynihan

  I expected him to argue, to press the issue, but he didn’t. He remained quiet for several long moments, the heat from his body thawing mine.

  “When you didn’t show up at the stables this morning, Asher knew something was wrong. He said only sickness would keep you away. And when I didn’t find you in your room, I went out looking.” He paused. His swallow was loud in the silence. “I thought . . . When I found you face down with a blade sticking out of your back, I—” His heavy sigh stirred something within my chest.

  It was my turn to swallow. “Thank you. For finding me.”

  The tightness around his eyes softened. “Always.”

  A corner of my mouth curled, then I was drifting on a cloud of sleepiness.

  “Hold on there, sleepyhead,” he said. Surprised, I popped my eyes open. His gaze held an apology. “The wound needs cleaning and stitches, so I’ll need to . . .”

  Oh.

  My eyes gradually widened in horror. My back. My . . . scars.

  I was frozen with indecision, almost demanding he take me to the infirmary for further treatment, but he would suspect. Ask questions. I was trapped. My heart rate jackknifed as my body vibrated with the need to flee. Bren’s expression morphed to bewilderment, a line bisecting his brows. He opened his mouth and I quickly cleared my throat, cutting him off. “Yeah. Just give me a second.”

  My arm wobbled crazily as I propped myself on an elbow, then loosened the front laces of my filthy nightshirt. I felt a moment of relief at the sight. At least Bren hadn’t tried to dress me in clean clothing. The task of lowering the material over my shoulder proved to be too much. My arms shook so hard, the action agitated my wound and I hissed through clenched teeth.

  Bren’s gentle fingers stilled my attempts. He helped lower me to the mattress once more, then ever-so-carefully peeled the bloody shirt from my skin. I didn’t blink, move, or breathe. I waited in agony for the inevitable moment. I’d rather endure another stabbing than this acute torture. As cool air touched ravaged skin, I heard his sharp inhale and wanted to die a thousand cruel deaths.

  A nasty little voice jeered in my ear. You are ugly. You are damaged. You are weak. You aren’t good enough. You’re a failure.

  Shame dug its unforgiving talons into my chest and twisted maliciously. Without mercy, I sank my teeth into my lip and concentrated on the biting pain. It was better than crying. I would not cry.

  And then, with the softest touch imaginable, he trailed his fingers down my shoulder and feathered them along my spine, exposing more and more flaws as he went. The infinite care was overwhelming, and my eyes ached hotly. No amount of lip-biting could keep the burn at bay.

  “What has been done to you? Victus est cor meum.”

  It was the hushed, broken tones that did me in. I buried my face in the mattress and released a flood of tears. Drowning in them seemed like a kindness after this humiliation. It wasn’t just my back he exposed but my very soul, my deepest insecurities laid bare. I quivered at how completely vulnerable I felt.

  He brushed aside clumps of stringy hair, revealing the side of my face, and I peered past the cleared gap before I could think better of it. That’s when I saw Bren’s face, so near my own that I hiccupped in surprise. His expression held so much sadness, my eyes welled with more tears. He closed his, as if my pain was too much for him, then leaned forward, pressing his forehead to mine.

  Lyrical words like soft music spilled from his lips, and though I didn’t recognize them, their meaning was clear. He cared. Well and truly cared. It wasn’t pity he now showed me, but more like . . . understanding, as if my abuse were his. He radiated mournful sorrow.

  An incessant urge to comfort him stole over me and I reached out, needing more contact. I touched his cheek, which was both soft and hard, half-covered in prickly stubble. I almost pulled away, shocked at my boldness, but the rough texture beneath my fingertips fascinated me. I explored his jaw, which was smoother than it looked. I expected the muscles to be as rigid as rock after all the jaw-flexing he did.

  My eyes had drifted shut and I slowly opened them to find Bren watching me. My throat closed. A bare inch separated our faces. His free hand slid across the mattress and captured mine, encasing it in warmth. Normally I’d feel out-of-my-mind uncomfortable at the intimate position I found myself in, but the way he was looking at me, the way his thumb swept across my knuckles . . .

  I was hypnotized.

  “I want you to remember something very important, Lune. Your scars are beautiful. You are beautiful, and not just on the outside. Your scars have made you strong—so strong. And that’s what I see. Strength.”

  Somehow, I still possessed tears in my body. They renewed their trek down my face, further dampening the mattress. But I didn’t have words, not after what he had just said. They filled me, uplifted me, consumed me completely. And I knew like I knew my deepest secret that he had meant every word.

  His eyes further intensified, as if by doing so I would believe the sentiments the same way he did. That I was beautiful and strong.

  But right now, I just felt weak, weaker than I’d ever felt before. My lids pulled shut again.

  Bren chuckled and moved his face away from mine, taking the heat with him. I frowned. “Now, let’s put that strength to the test one more time today, shall we? It’s time to stitch you up.”

  “Don’t poke me in the eye with the needle and I’ll do just fine, Doc,” I mumbled. A question niggled at the edge of my mind and I spoke it before I forgot. “How did you even find me? It should have taken you days, not hours. There’s miles and miles of forest to get lost in.”

  I couldn’t see his face anymore, so when he answered, “Just lucky, I guess,” I had more questions than ever.

  Somewhere behind me, Bren’s voice rumbled, “You opened it again.” No, more like grumped.

  “So?” I tossed back, knowing it would rile him up.

  “There’s blood soaking through your shirt. Come here, I’ll tape it closed.”

  “I don’t have time.” I performed another lunge, ignoring the dull throb in my shoulder. “It’ll stop bleeding on its own.”

  All was silent and I grinned. The calm before the storm. We had been dancing to this tune for the last three weeks as my injury healed. He was like a big mother hen.

  I straightened and made to step into another lunge, but a tree sprouted right in front of me and I smacked into it. Oh, my mistake, the tree was actually a cranky Bren. My hands flashed to my hips and I stared him down. Well, more like stared him up. Did he grow another inch overnight? My brows lowered. “Get out of my way, Doc. I’ll bite you if I have to.”

  His eyes glittered. “Try it. See what happens.”

  With that dare, my body temperature spiked. I ignored the heat as best I could, fingers digging into my hip bones. “Maybe I will,” I taunted.

  Warning, warning: playing with fire!

  But I couldn’t seem to stop. It was too much fun.

  And then he lunged for me and a tiny shriek escaped my mouth, echoing in the near empty gym. He latched onto my arms and spun me around, marching me toward a deserted corner. A gaping trainee stopped lifting weights and I glared at him. He resumed his task. Bren plopped me into a metal chair, then went to retrieve a first aid kit.

  My butt left the chair and he jabbed a finger at me. “Sit.”

  I hissed and he snickered.

  As he got to work patching me up—again—a random thought popped out of my mouth. “So, what is your book about?”

  Laughter startled me and I peered up at him.

  “Sorry,” he said, still chuckling. “You’ll probably think I’m strange but it’s a book of poetry. I guess you could say reading poems is a hobby of mine. But I’m sure you didn’t catch the title because it’s in Latin.”

  Poetry? Hobby? Latin? What gibberish is he speaking now?

  I hoped my next question was safe enough. At the moment, I felt incredibly stupid. “So, the foreign words you sometimes say . . . they’r
e Latin?”

  “Mmmhmm. How about you? What do you do in your free time?”

  My mind blanked. “Uh. I don’t know.” I decided not to tell him about the dangerous game I played with water. He’d probably think I was insane if he knew I tried to drown myself for fun.

  “Huh.” He readjusted my shirt and snapped the kit shut. “What if I helped you find a hobby once the Trials are over? You’re bound to have some free time then.”

  The question rattled me—it was like submerging into ice water. The Trials were only two weeks away. That meant I had two weeks left before my life would change forever. Up until a couple months ago, all I could think about was leaving this place. But now . . .

  My heart twisted violently, then I shot up from the chair.

  “What’s wrong?” Bren was instantly in front of me, searching my panic-stricken face. He reached for me but I shook my head, backing up a step. His brows knitted and I relented. He had saved my life. The least I could do was give him an explanation of what was to come, even if it was vague at best.

  “The Trials.” I took a fortifying breath. “When the Trials are over, everything will change. I . . . I might not see you anymore.” My heart gave another painful lurch.

  He frowned and ran a hand along his neck, scratching it. “What do you mean? Do you think you’ll fail and get assigned a menial job? That won’t happen, Lune. You’ll win, I know you will.”

  I groaned. “No, that’s not what I meant. Don’t you realize that we’re supposed to be competing against each other? If we’re assigned to contend in the same segment—and odds are we will—we can’t both win.”

  “Actually, we can.”

  I stilled, a flare of warning tickling my spine. “How? That’s not possible. There’s only ever one winner per segment. The only possible way we could both win Title of Choice is if . . .”

  Stars, he knows something.

  He watched me carefully, jaw lightly flexing. Whatever he was about to say could drive a permanent wedge between us and he knew it. I prepared myself, fisting my hands and shifting my feet. His voice lowered, even though we had the corner to ourselves.

  “I spoke with your father.” Immediately, I stiffened and he jerked up a hand. “Hear me out. This was almost two months ago, the day before you decided you couldn’t trust me anymore. I told him I couldn’t compete against you, so I made a deal with him. We came to an agreement, and now you and I are assigned to different segments in all three Trials.”

  My breathing was too fast. I clenched and unclenched my fingers. Droplets of sweat peppered my forehead and upper lip. Brendan Bearon, what have you done? And why didn’t you tell me sooner? I wanted to throttle him. Instead, I asked, “What was the deal?”

  He looked away and sighed. “I can’t tell you that. It’s . . . confidential.”

  “Oh?” My heart thudded, and then a question I’d been meaning to ask him struck me like a lightning bolt. It was the question that had urged me out of bed and almost gotten me killed three weeks ago. My face simultaneously surged with blood and drained of it. I felt sick with dread. “Bren, why Tatum City? Why do all of this—signing contracts, the Trials, giving up the outside world. What does this city have to offer that the rest of the world doesn’t?”

  Who’s pulling your strings?

  This time he scrubbed both hands down his face and blew out a long breath. The conversation had formed a wall of tension between us and I feared it could never be breached. After several agonizing seconds, his eyes met mine. They were clear yet held a myriad of secrets.

  Still, he answered me with deep sincerity. I just didn’t know what to make of it. “Signing a Trial contract was the only way into this city. Not just one Trial, but all three. If I don’t prove my worth in the Trials, I’ll be sent to the outside again. But I’m not allowed to tell you why I’m here—like, I physically can’t. I will tell you this, though: nothing is as it seems. It’s not about what the city can offer. Renold has been planning something for decades and I’m—” He choked and rubbed at his throat, like it hurt him.

  I could tell by the spark in his eyes that he wanted to say more, but wouldn’t. Or . . . couldn’t?

  After a careful inhale, he continued. “The purpose of the Elite Trials isn’t just to prove who is worthy of a new job title. They’re so much more than that. But whatever happens, know that I am on your side. Whatever happens, please remember that.”

  Whatever happens. That was asking a lot, especially now that he had made a secret deal with the devil.

  The Elite Trials Winter Gala was a mockery.

  This event was held in honor of the Trials contenders, the lesser. In actuality, the Gala was for the elites, a way to lord their social standing over those inferior to them—which was everyone. They flaunted their status and twittered behind devious hands, betting on the Trials. Several of them, as patrons, had a personal investment or two, and openly disputed amongst each other as to whose contender would win.

  The Supreme Elite’s daughters were required to attend the annual three-day-long Gala every year, to show their support of the Trials, of course. Every year I went, and every year I hid in a corner, making myself scarce. But I feared this year would be different.

  Kara—my hairdresser—and Arlyn—my seamstress—fluttered about me with agitated hands as I stiffly stood before Rose’s floor-length mirror. I was still in her old room, but I didn’t care anymore. Soon, I told myself, I would leave behind all my city-accumulated possessions and begin anew.

  Soon.

  My stomach clenched with nerves.

  Now that the Trials were finally here, my body had gone haywire. I picked at my food, too nauseated to eat. I was easily distracted, making poor decisions during training. And I barely slept. For the past two nights, I had woken in the middle of my room with a knife in the air, poised to strike.

  I shook my head as I envisioned how insane I must have looked.

  “Hold still, Miss Lune.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled to Kara as her hands expertly weaved blue ribbon into my hair, forming a crown of braids atop my head. She looped the midnight satin into place and tied the ends off. A large golden comb was carefully positioned in front of the braid, just in case the crown effect wasn’t conspicuous enough.

  “Okay, you are ready. What do you think?” I glanced at my hairdresser in the mirror’s reflection, noting the slight tremor in her voice. Odd. She was usually so calm and collected. What had her spooked?

  My eyes dipped to the new dress I wore, by far the grandest ever made for me. It was blue, a deep pool of twinkling stars. The satin top fit like a second skin, restricting my breaths. The bodice pushed my breasts upward, exposing their curved tops. I not-so-subtly tugged at the material, but it wouldn’t budge. Ugh. Capped sleeves covered my shoulders and, thankfully, the seamstress had formed a higher back on the dress, hiding my scars.

  The two staff members had seen my scars, but they were both sworn to secrecy several years ago. I didn’t know what Renold had said to them, but it must have been effective. There had never been rumors of the elite daughter’s scars.

  I peeked at my face, not used to seeing so much makeup on it. With dark kohl-rimmed eyes and full red lips, I appeared older. And I looked like an elite.

  Invisible fingers gripped my throat.

  I needed air.

  “It’s perfect,” I somehow managed to say. “Thank you, Kara. And Arlyn, the dress is beautiful.”

  They both beamed at my reflection, as if up until this moment they had doubted their handiwork. The strange behavior only intensified my angst. The room shrunk and oxygen grew scarcer with each forced breath. As they gathered their supplies, I made my escape. The relief I felt was immediate.

  One last time, I snuck to the fourth-floor observatory and climbed to my secret balcony. After tonight, I might never see this view again. Gone were the vibrant reds, oranges, and golds. The branches were barren spidery limbs reaching for a midnight sky. It had snowed recently, and
the light powder covered every square inch of ground from here to the mountains.

  A stiff breeze froze in my lungs and rustled the filmy layers of tulle on my skirt. Still, I breathed deeply, clearing my foggy brain. The air was crisp and deathly silent. I felt like an intruder.

  My eyes closed, and I imagined my feet leaving the balcony as I rose above this prison where I didn’t belong. Up and up my body ascended, until I shot like a star toward the distant mountain peaks. I aimed for the tallest one, feeling wild and free. My chest ached, not with cold, but with longing.

  “Soon. Soon you will climb those mountains, and no wall will stop you.”

  I followed the haunting strains of violin as if in a dream. The sound was trancelike; I floated on clouds. Music was a gift so rarely heard and I soaked in every note until my soul’s ache was soothed.

  “Announcing Miss Lune Tatum, contender in the Elite Trials.” The head butler’s firm monotone voice broke the spell, and I erased all traces of whimsy from my face.

  “Thanks, Dobson,” I murmured for his ears alone. “You finally remembered me. This pleases me so greatly, I might remember to name my first child after you. Wait, what’s your name again?” His lip twitched, the most he ever reacted to my sarcasm. I supposed I would miss him a little when I left.

  No, not really.

  I swept into the long, rectangular room that was neglected but once a year. Pine garlands hung over the two roaring fireplaces and tall, warmly lit candelabras chased away the corner’s shadows. Bodies were everywhere, bedecked in their family’s or patron’s colors—greens, reds, yellows and, of course, blues.

  A cluster of blue mingled near one of the fireplaces, the fire’s blaze reflecting off their golden accessories. As usual, several lesser elites mingled close by, eager for the Supreme Elite’s notice. Sickening.

  I hugged the outer wall where a row of French doors led to an impressive balcony overlooking the river and mountain range beyond. I wrapped a hand around one of the door’s handles, nudging it open, where I planned to flee the stifling room and mingle with the outdoor chill. At least the full moon would keep me company.