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

by Becky Moynihan

  “Lune!” a voice bellowed. “Would you snap out of it? I’m not going to hurt you!”

  My screams faded as I concentrated on that voice. I blinked until the fog receded, revealing honey-gold eyes. The sight sucked the fight out of me, then a second later, reignited it.

  Bren.

  He was on top of me. Holding me prisoner.

  I growled, “Get off!” and struggled against his grip. It was like being pinned down by a steel plank. A fresh wave of panic flooded my veins—even when he released me, rolling to the side.

  As I tried to stand, hot pain shot through my body. My muscles shook and black smudged the edges of my vision. No, no, not now! I blinked the darkness away. After a few attempts, I clamored to my feet, then slowly backed away. Tremors gathered in my fingers and stole up my arms. Glancing down, I saw my knife still clenched in my fist. I almost dropped it. Almost. But self-preservation, the one thing that had kept me alive all these years, had me hastily slipping the weapon into my pants pocket.

  I continued backing away. Swirls of shame and fury inflamed my face. What had I done? I had almost killed someone. My brain skipped over the thought, not wanting to process it. Bren had ruined my life, but still . . .

  Space. I needed it. A lot of it. Pivoting, I plunged through the woods.

  “Lune!”

  No, no, no! I had to get away. He was unraveling me all too quickly, peeking at the darkest parts—the parts I so carefully kept hidden. Their exposure left me weak, vulnerable. I hated it. I hated him!

  He was going to destroy everything—everything I had worked so hard to achieve. My fears were his gain. He would train with me, use me, then exploit my weaknesses, stealing my freedom once again. Wasn’t it enough that he had stolen my past?

  Terrible pressure built inside my throat until breathing was impossible. I slammed into a tree and dug my nails into the bark to steady my shaking body. Rage choked me. I fought the knot in my throat and let loose an unearthly howl. Cocking my arm back, I rammed a fist into the tree.

  The pain was instant, sharp and biting. More pain. More wounds to heal. More scars for my body. But the rage was still there.

  I hit the tree again and my knuckles split open from the abrasive impact. Whirling, I slammed a boot into the trunk. The satisfying sound of cracking wood gave my adrenaline a boost. I went for another pass, whipping my leg around, but something grabbed ahold of my calf, immediately releasing me so that I stumbled to the side.

  I crouched and brought my fists up, prepared to defend myself. And then I recognized him. “Why did you stop me?” I spat.

  Bren spread his arms wide, like an invitation. “Hit me instead.”

  I looked away, clenching my aching jaw.

  “I know you want to. I saw it in your eyes.”

  I remained silent, furious with myself for being so transparent.

  “Am I right?” he prodded. Again.

  He was going to get his wish if he kept verbally poking me. But with a great amount of effort, I gathered my raw emotions, concealing them once again. He wouldn’t so easily tear down my barriers next time. Oh stars, I prayed there wouldn’t be a next time. The stress of keeping everything locked inside would kill me.

  I needed distance. From him. From everything. Without replying, I marched to where we had left Stalin and untied his reins. I halted, my head falling back in frustration. I couldn’t get away from Bren. I was stuck with him. Even now. He stood right behind me, his large body casting mine in shadow.

  Words begged to be said. Words that would create a river between us, one he couldn’t cross. They crashed against my brain until I was forced to expel them. I spun and stood toe-to-toe with him, glaring up at his grim face.

  “Don’t,” I said curtly. “Don’t try to figure me out. Whatever you think you see, you’re wrong. You know nothing about me or what I want. I’m your trainer, nothing more. Keep it that way.”

  “Why?” His confusion permeated the air, so thick I could almost taste it.

  But I was used to confusion. If he spent enough time inside these walls, he would get used to it as well. Secrets weren’t given away for free. Not if you want to survive.

  Though stiff, every movement a fresh nightmare of undulating pain, I swung into the saddle before saying, “Come on. Let’s go.”

  Normally I craved silence, the kind that made me think I was the only being in existence. But, in this moment, the utter lack of noise was torture.

  I knew he was there—his legs brushed the backs of my thighs with every shift of the saddle. I felt his fingers tighten where they rested on my sides when we crossed the river, loosening when we hit dry ground. Minutes ticked by, taunting me with their slowness. Would this day never end?

  With the sun heavy in the sky and on the verge of plunging below the tree line, we made it to the last Trial site. My shoulders relaxed their pensive hold and so did my tongue.

  “You should petition for Stalin as your mount in the Rasa Rowe Trial. He’s strong and fast. Stubborn and a bit mouthy, too, but you two have that in common, so . . .”

  He chuckled. “I suppose we do. You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I have my own charger, Cleopatra. I’m sure she’s jealous that I’ve spent all my time with another today.” Too late, I realized the phrase didn’t come out the way I intended. “With another charger, I mean.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

  Ugh. He was teasing me. “No, we wouldn’t. She might retaliate with her teeth. Who knows what body part she’d target.”

  He shut up at that. Score one for me.

  At the top of a grassy knoll, we paused, taking in the sight of a square gray concrete slab nestled at the bottom of a green valley. If only the earth saw fit to swallow the arena whole. Inside that ugly box was a world of pain and brutality, where only the physically strong—or merciless—survived. Not many women attempted this Trial. Even the very brave knew their limits.

  I knew mine, but nothing would keep me from doing what I had to do.

  I would win. There was no other alternative.

  “This is Faust Night?”

  “The one and only.” I rested my eyes on the Trial’s insignia: crossed swords. It was chiseled onto the concrete wall, duplicated on either side of the front doors.

  “Not much to look at. Let’s go inside.” He was on the ground and bounding down the hill before I could protest.

  What did he think this was? A picnic?

  With a groan, I followed.

  Near the entrance, I tied Stalin to a hitching post, then approached the two guards in blue uniform who barred the doorway. As we neared, their hands crept toward their belts, where I knew they carried electric volt guns. On more than one occasion, I’d seen someone hit by a high-voltage dart—watched as they helplessly writhed on the ground, body madly convulsing. I had no desire to experience that sensation right now.

  “Evening,” I said, making sure they could see my empty hands.

  “State your purpose,” the older one on the left commanded and then straightened to his full height when Bren’s tall frame filled the space.

  “I’m Lune Tatum, in case you haven’t seen me around. Newly promoted to training instructor. I have orders from my father—I’m sure you’ve heard of him—to show this student the Trial sites. He wishes to see the inside.”

  “Instructor?” The younger one scoffed, looking me up and down. I bristled under his scrutiny. He finally noticed my expression, the one that said, Let us in or I will knee you in the jewels. He shared a look with the other guard, who nodded, and they opened the doors.

  I breezed inside, head held high. The message was clear: Your jewels are safe. For now.

  The sound of snickering followed me in and I whirled. Bren tried to wipe the grin from his face without success before saying, “You must have a lot of friends.”

  Was that sarcasm? Was he using sarcasm on me? “Not really, no. People usually avoid me.”

  He snort
ed on more laughter and I rolled my eyes. I could tell this was going to become a habit with him.

  I crossed the drab entrance hall and threw open a set of double doors. Stepping over the threshold, a needling chill slid up my spine. The interior was dark except for the middle of the cavernous room, weakly lit from the skylights high above. I touched a metal railing, using it as a guide as I descended the steep staircase. My eyes never left the square patch of light at the bottom, which grew larger and larger with each step.

  The trainers called it The Pit. I thought the nickname fit quite well. This place was the armpit of Tatum City.

  Sunken deep into the ground, the arena was unadorned and unremarkable—a cement slab surrounded by tall, reinforced glass walls. It was seamless, except for vent holes strategically placed in the floor and on rods hovering above the glassed enclosure.

  “What’s the glass for?” Bren had followed me to the bottom without trouble. I didn’t even see him use the handrail. He touched the thick glass and peered inside the square pit with rapt curiosity.

  “To protect the audience.” I placed a palm on the cool wall.

  “From what?”

  “Flying debris,” I responded cryptically. At his pointed look, I elaborated. “Every year there are four segments for this Trial, since it’s the most popular. For each segment, five contenders compete against each other, and the last one not cut by steel wins. But there’s a . . . twist, I guess you’d call it. The contenders also have to deal with the elements thrown at them.”

  “You mean, like earth, fire, wind . . . and water?” His throat bobbed, like he was having trouble swallowing.

  “Yes, like that.” My lips curled reflexively. Was he nervous? He should be.

  He didn’t respond. He was staring at the pit like it was a torture chamber of death. I guess it kind of was. If he didn’t get over his fear of water, it could very well be his near-future grave.

  “Bren?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll train you.” I almost bashed my forehead against the glass, completely shocked I’d said that out loud. But, for some stupid reason, I promised myself that I would. Maybe I felt a small connection with him, knowing he had weaknesses just like me. But I couldn’t promise that I wouldn’t use his weakness for my gain. Nothing was more important than winning my freedom.

  He was quiet for so long, I sought out his reaction, only to find him staring at me quizzically. When his gaze intensified, I struggled with the desire to run away and hit him at the same time. Why is he looking at me that way?

  “I think,” he said, low and soft, “there’s a whole lot more to you than fists and sarcasm. And I think I’m going to enjoy getting to know the real you.”

  My heart blipped to a halt.

  Oh crap.

  After dropping Stalin off at the stables, we made our way to the trainee barracks—finally. I was almost done with this field trip. My muscles were stiff, hot and aching, exhaustion pulling at me after only a few hours in Bren’s presence. Keeping my spine straight was near impossible now.

  I didn’t understand what had possessed him to say such a thing earlier, about wanting to know the real me. I did know one thing for certain though. He couldn’t find out about our childhood connection. Because if he knew, he would have the power to tear down my carefully constructed walls. Tearing them down would expose emotions I had spent eleven years suppressing, and I couldn’t be vulnerable like that. Especially not with him. I had to stay focused on training. With the Trials less than three months away, distractions like him would get me killed.

  If he tried to unearth any more of my secrets, I would do whatever it took to keep them hidden—even if I had to fight him. And outside of training, he would find that fighting me was not something he wanted to do.

  As we neared our living quarters, I ticked off the barracks rules. “All trainees eat and sleep in the barracks while under contract. Except for the elites and house staff, most everyone else lives in the village north of here. Follow the rules and you’ll do just fine. Here are the important ones: meals are served three times a day in the mess hall starting at the sunrise bell; head to your designated training field at the second bell; fighting is not allowed outside of the training fields; guests are not allowed inside the barracks; girls’ dorms are on the second floor and boys’ on the third.”

  I stopped in front of the ugly building and faced him. “Oh, and relationships are strictly forbidden. Like no, uh, funny business sort of thing. You know what I mean,” I finished lamely. So awkward.

  Bren’s lips quirked, like he thought my embarrassment was cute. I itched to smack his face. “I think I got it. What happens if you do any . . . funny business?”

  He thought this was a joke? Fine. “They cut off a finger for each infraction. So, if they catch you touching someone in a manner they deem inappropriate, you lose a finger. Keep doing it, lose all ten fingers. Toes come next.” Somehow, I managed a straight face the entire explanation.

  He choked on a cough and I decided to help him out, giving his back a mighty thwack. “Breathe,” I said, barely restraining a snicker.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, holding up his hands and avoiding my touch. “Should you be touching me right now?”

  A snort left my nose.

  Eyes narrowing, Bren dropped his hands. “You were teasing me.”

  “You’re not the only one who knows how to tease, Mr. Bearon. Don’t dish it if you can’t take it. And touching is unavoidable—we must train, after all. But, if you want to see the inside of those Trials, you’ll steer clear of . . .” I raised an eyebrow, daring him to finish.

  “Funny business,” he dared with a smirk. He was going to be trouble. Giant-sized trouble. The big oaf continued to pursue the subject. “So, what will really happen if you’re caught doing funny business?”

  Why was he so interested? This was worse than any nightmare.

  I puffed out a long-suffering sigh. “When you signed those contracts, you became property of the Trials. As overseer of the Trials, Renold decides on the type of punishment to deliver when a trainee breaks a contract rule. If you’re lucky, he’ll let Elite Trainer Drake decide. Because, if Renold takes a personal interest in your punishment, chances are your contract will end. No contract means no contending in the Trials. Got it?”

  His head bobbed slowly. He wasn’t smirking now. Good.

  My stomach rumbled like a runaway charger, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day. “Come on, let’s head to the mess hall. I’m starving.” I paused with my hand on the door, debating if I should warn him. Why was I helping him so much? No one made life easy for me when I was dropped into this place. When he had taken me away from the safety of my mother.

  And yet . . .

  I cleared my throat, then blurted, “Be careful what you say around the other trainees. They would rather spite you than befriend you. Not everyone is as sweet as I am.” I threw him one of my sugary fake smiles, which only made him grin. Ugh. He wasn’t supposed to smile at that.

  Opening the door, I followed the noise. This was my least favorite part of the day. I could avoid most of my peers during training, breakfast, and even lunch since I oftentimes ate at the village market but, by dinnertime, I was ravenous. Nothing kept me away from the last meal of the day.

  The mess hall was packed, the evening meal in full swing. I noticed Bren’s gaze went straight to the most predominant feature in the massive room: the rank billboard. Its digital lights flashed dozens of names and ranks from top tier to bottom tier, the majority of the names found in the bottom two tiers. My name blazed bright blue under the tier five rank. I looked away from the stupid shrine and pointed to the far-left corner of the room.

  “The beginner trainees—or tier ones—usually sit over there. Groups are formed by skill level, not age. There are five tiers total.”

  Bren shrugged. “I’ll sit with you.”

  “The tier fives won’t like it. Everything is about hierarchy in here. If y
ou sit at their table without earning a spot first, you’ll be mocked, ridiculed, teas—”

  “I’ll be fine, Lune,” he laughed. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  Rodeo? What’s a rodeo?

  “Suit yourself,” I muttered, grabbing a metal tray next to the cafeteria line. Most of the time I passed through the line unnoticed before sliding into an end seat at my usual corner table. Not many had the nerve to disturb me.

  But there was a decided shift tonight. A heavy, curious feeling permeated the air. One I had never felt before—the weight of several dozen eyes boring into my back. I knew it was because of Bren. The city rarely saw outsiders and, even more rarely, witnessed me spend time with anyone but my trainer. Bren didn’t seem to notice the attention, too busy creating a mashed potato mountain on his plate. I envied his nonchalance.

  Unlike him, I was too preoccupied with the stares to notice what I was putting on my plate. When I spotted a stack of shiny red, I reached for it. As long as I had an apple, I didn’t care what else I was eating.

  I glanced at Bren’s plate again. “Fish and potatoes? That’s it? Where’s the greens? As your trainer, I’m not impressed with your diet.” I was quite pleased with my superior tone. Maybe being a trainer had its perks.

  A sound came from deep in Bren’s throat.

  I blinked up at him. “Did you—did you just growl at me?”

  He turned, revealing a tiny pile of broccoli sitting on the corner of his plate. “There. Happy?” I nodded sagely, finding delight in ruffling his feathers. He obviously had a vendetta against greens. When his face cleared of annoyance, he drawled, “And I didn’t growl at you. I’d be too afraid of the consequences. I just growl at anything green.”

  My brows lowered. “My eyes are kind of green.”

  “I know.” The right corner of his mouth tipped up and he gave me a wink. I almost dropped my tray.

  Speechless, I watched him stroll to where the tier fives sat and claim a spot at the head of the table as if he did it every day. He was either incredibly assured or ridiculously stupid. Probably both.