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

by Becky Moynihan

  “Do it,” she snarled through bared teeth. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  I gasped. How could she say that? Did the Trial win mean this much to her, that she’d rather die than lose? But then it struck me that I was doing the same thing and I felt sick to my stomach. I removed my dagger from her skin. “No. You should live, Catanna. Find something worth living for.” I neatly sliced the material covering her bicep and watched as a thin line of blood welled up.

  The crowd’s roar crashed over my heightened senses. The thunderous sound drowned out the impending chime of her suit. My limbs vibrated with adrenaline as I focused outside of the cage, and I immediately became overwhelmed by a sea of animated faces. The sight of Bren, pressed close to the glass, settled my world somewhat. I took a shaky step toward him, then another, my eyes seeking out his. The comforting gold of his irises warmed my insides, that wicked grin of his stirring my heart to tripping over itself.

  And then it all changed. Horror. There was horror on that face and he was pushing toward me, his body slamming into the wall as if he could force his way through by sheer will alone.

  I felt a wrinkle form between my brows. What was he—? Crack! My skull screamed in agony as something rammed into my temple, driving me to the ground. I smacked the sand with enough force to make me bounce, and I lost a dagger. My spine bowed as a solid weight pushed me farther into the sand. Air left me in a rush. Fingers pried at my remaining dagger and I clenched my fist, refusing to give up my only chance at survival.

  Something, maybe the hilt of a katana, bludgeoned my temple once more. Stars burst across my vision. I was jerked onto my back, the dagger ripped from my fingers. Strong thighs pinned my arms to my sides, all before I could blink away the floating black and white lights. Catanna’s exultant grin swam into view. I frowned in confusion. She should be writhing on the floor right now, bolts of electricity snaking through her veins.

  But as she leaned over me, my dagger now clutched in her hand, confusion was replaced with acceptance. It was me or her. There was no way around it now. If I didn’t kill her, she would kill me. I felt her place the tip of my blade to the delicate skin of my left temple and I stilled, stiller than death itself. A muffled whump-whump sound—as if a body repetitively threw itself against an obstacle—pricked at my ears, but I quickly shut the noise out.

  Catanna giggled, sounding like a girl unhinged. “It must be my lucky day. A malfunctioning suit. Or is it?” My lips tightened at her words. She babbled on, all the while twisting the blade tip against my skin. “What if someone wanted me to win and sabotaged the suit? I mean, I could just pretend ignorance, that I didn’t know I’d been cut.”

  Her breathing escalated then, and she look scared. Her eyes darted around the room, searching. She must have found something, because her gaze jerked back to mine, victorious. “This win is mine. I won’t let you take away what I’ve worked so hard for. But before I end your life, I’ll put my initials on your face, so that the city knows who the real Princess of the Trials is.”

  And with that, she began to carve. Steel dug into my skin in a slow, torturous half circle. The searing heat was too much and I screamed, hot tears obscuring my view of the sad, twisted girl trying to kill her past. Warm blood trickled into my hairline, mingling with the flow of tears as I realized what I had to do. I didn’t hesitate. My stomach muscles clenched, and I jerked my knees upward. Catanna flipped over my head. I followed her in a backward somersault; my fingers clawed at the dagger still clutched in her hand.

  We rolled several times, each trying to gain leverage as we fought over the weapon. Four hands struggled for the dagger’s slick hilt as our bodies slammed up against the glass barrier, as Catanna landed on top, as she raised herself up and shifted her weight forward, driving the blade’s tip down, down, down, until it broke through my suit and pierced the skin of my chest. I screamed, the pressure a shrieking firestorm.

  The elements joined the fray. Winds and sand blasted my beaten body, tore at my shredded throat.

  No.

  I wasn’t beat.

  I wasn’t beat!

  Everything froze. We were cocooned in a cyclone of sand and heat and wind. I couldn’t see, hear, or think. All I had left were my instincts. They were the only thing the elements couldn’t snatch away.

  I pushed, with every last drop of rage and fear and helplessness. Helpless to stop what was going to happen next. Fear because I knew. I knew what was going to happen. I felt it before it even came to pass. I felt the weapon slip from her grasp, now firmly in my control. I felt my body roll with my victim’s. I felt the blade sink through material and skin, tissue and muscle, until it found a home in a desperate heart.

  The wind stopped. The sand settled.

  In the silence, my mind denied what had just happened, even as crimson bloomed and spread over material white as snow. A wet cough. Another. Catanna was choking on her own blood. It spilled from her lips. “You . . . you took e-everything from me. You s-selfish elite . . .”

  I looked into her eyes. Oh stars. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t. They were murky brown pools of emptiness.

  A chill deeper than I’d ever felt before seeped into my bones.

  I had . . .

  I had killed her.

  A fierce wave of nausea surged up my throat and I twisted, splattering the contents of my stomach. The ground was a wasteland. I deserved to wallow in it. My body sank toward the concrete slab and shifting sand as it yawned, gladly accepting the offering. But a strong pair of hands slipped under my arms and lifted me away from the carnage.

  Halfway to the barracks, my legs completely gave out. Bren scooped me into his arms and carried my limp body close to his chest. I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything.

  A mechanical hissing sound made me flinch. I looked up and a dingy shower stall took shape. How had we gotten here? Bren lowered me to my feet, keeping a solid arm around my waist. I felt like I would float away into nothing without that arm holding me to the earth.

  “Lune.”

  Slow blink.

  “Lune, can you hear me?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Can you wash yourself? Quick in and out, just to get the blood off. I don’t want the cold water putting you into further shock.”

  Shock . . . Is that what this was? I wanted to bathe in its numbness—wash all thought away and drown the pain.

  Without replying, I shuffled into the small square stall, clothes and all, and slid the curtain closed.

  A sigh. Then soft retreating footsteps.

  Silence, except for the spitting shower-head.

  I was alone, at last.

  The chill dug deeper into my bones, to my very soul. My whole body chattered; my jaw ached with each clack of my teeth. As the water penetrated my suit, I dropped my chin and watched, detached, as rivers of red and pink swirled down the drain. My blood mixed with several others’.

  My knees liquified and my back smacked against the shower wall. I slid until my butt hit the floor. And there, in a cold empty corner, I pulled my knees close to keep from falling apart. But it was happening. The numb nothingness was lifting, and I saw her dead eyes. I jammed my eyelids closed and threw out a hand, trying to push away the image. My knuckles cracked against tile.

  The image was replaced with another, of Catanna’s blood-flecked mouth. “Killer,” the lips accused.

  I whimpered, the noise high and frail. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  The red lips sneered. “Liar.”

  “No.” I shook my head, clumps of hair sticking to my wet cheeks. “That’s not—”

  “Elitist.”

  “No!” The scream tore at my throat, ripping away the last of the numbness. The press of emotions was like being held under water, my lungs starved for air. My mouth opened but no sound came out. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I punched the wall. The agony of bone colliding with tile sharpened my focus. I could breathe again. I imagined my pain was a ball an
d squeezed it tightly in my fist, then drove it into the wall, again and again.

  Red rivulets ran down the tiles.

  And then my body bucked, head wobbling to and fro. I was being shaken. Vices clamped onto my wrists, stopping my assault on the tiles. I wrestled against the constraints, but no amount of fighting could set me free. I was a prisoner—forever a prisoner. A faraway noise, muted and garbled, distracted me and I tilted my head, wondering at the notes of panic.

  “Stop. Stop, Lune. You’re hurting yourself! This won’t help.”

  I desperately wanted to shatter into droplets of water and slide down the shower drain. My nerves were deadening again, and I shook uncontrollably. The water shut off and a towel wrapped around me, then I was airborne.

  I had enough sense left to recognize my own room as my sopping boots touched down on concrete. Gold eyes, lit with life—so much life—filled my world and a fierce ache squeezed my heart. Bren’s hands left my shoulders; the warmth of his gaze and touch disappeared. He was back a second later, my nightclothes in his grasp, but the bone-deep chill had already returned. I drifted, focus blurring at the edges.

  “Stay with me, little bird. I need you to get out of that suit. Can you manage it?”

  I nodded—at least I thought I’d nodded—then reached for the zipper at my neck. Bren glanced away, even went so far as to show me his back, and my heart squeezed again. My chin quivered and not from the cold. The dull hiss of a zipper and my awkward attempts at peeling the material from my slick skin were the only sounds in the room. With a thump, I kicked off my boots and stepped out of the suit. And that’s when I noticed, as I shivered in nothing but my underwear, that the suit was covered in pink stains—stains that would probably never wash out.

  I crushed the suit into a ball and hurled the miserable thing across the room. With a splat, it settled into a corner, like a venomous snake waiting for its next victim. Bren stayed silent, didn’t even flinch. I donned my gray nightshirt and pants, then cleared my throat. The sound was weak, raw.

  I expected to see pity in his eyes when he turned and approached me once more. The last thing I deserved was pity. I was a killer. He shouldn’t even be here, helping me. But his emotions were tucked away as he slowly lifted his hand and looped the stubborn lock of hair behind my left ear. His fingers trailed along my jawline, gently tipping my chin up so he could inspect the crescent moon shape carved into my temple. The cut still leaked blood.

  His expression didn’t change, but his fingers shook ever so slightly. “You’ll need stitches,” he said softly, as if afraid the news would destroy me. But what was another scar? They were just reminders of what I’d endured. They were my shame. My burden.

  “Fine.” My voice was hollow.

  And then his expression did change, to one of worry. But that wasn’t all. There was this fierce gleam, so blindingly bright I almost looked away. It shot straight into my heart. His palm cupped my cheek and I tried not to lean into his warmth. “I can see that you blame yourself,” he said, sliding his thumb across my cheekbone. “But she gave you no choice. If you hadn’t done what you did, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe I don’t deserve to be standing here right now,” I managed to confess past quivering lips. At his growing look of horror, I launched into my reasoning. “You don’t know how hard it is for the lesser of this city. Why do you think so many of them enter the Trials, or send their children instead? The little bit of food I manage to smuggle into the village is nothing compared to the people’s needs. I—I took everything from her. From her family. If I had just accepted my fate, none of this would have happened.” I wouldn’t be a killer, is what I wanted to say but didn’t.

  Confusion blanketed his troubled gaze. “What do you mean by that? What is your fate?”

  I grimaced. Telling Catanna the truth hadn’t made a difference. Would Bren laugh at me too? He was from the outside, after all, and had willingly entered the confines of the city and the dangerous Trials. He was the least likely person to believe me, but . . .

  The price of my silence.

  I couldn’t bear for him to think of me as a shallow glory-seeker like everyone else, even if his reasons for winning the Trials led him down that very path. Maybe the truth would change his mind about what this city had to offer.

  “My fate is to be the loyal, humble servant of Supreme Elite Tatum,” I began. “I am his conquest, his slave—to do with as he pleases. But I am more than just a captive daughter to him, and I’m afraid to find out what that is.”

  My mouth was so dry, I couldn’t force a swallow as I finished. “The truth is, I don’t want any of this, Bren. I don’t want to be a trophy, an elite’s daughter, or even a Trial winner. I desire my freedom more than anything, and not just to escape the cruel hand of a madman. I want to be free of this horrid place, this city. I want . . . I want out. I want to live.”

  As if a hand gripped my neck, my throat closed. The air was static electricity, poised to strike me down for uttering such blasphemy. In all my eleven years trapped in this city, I had never once dared whisper such traitorous words. And now they were in the open, naked and vulnerable, and I feared what Bren would do with them.

  His breathing had picked up pace, eyes wild and burning. He looked like an untamed beast ready to explode, and I felt my insides recoil in terror. I had known him for such a short amount of time and had no idea what he was truly capable of. What if he got angry and . . . My pulse hammered erratically. His fingers, now tangled in my hair, formed a stronger grip. I was about to jerk away when he spoke, his voice laced with an emotion I couldn’t define.

  “You really want to be free of this place?”

  “With every last breath in my body.”

  Those wild eyes burned even brighter, with a passion that fluttered my heart. A strangled exhale slipped from my mouth as he crushed me to him. My palms rested on his chest where his heart thundered out of control.

  “Good,” he murmured. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” The words warmed the crown of my head. He drew me in tighter, and I fitted my nose to the valley his neck and shoulder made. And breathed. Sparks danced in my stomach, chasing away the numbness, worry, and fear.

  “Stars above, you smell good, Brendan Bearon.” Muscles jumped in his neck as he chuckled, and I froze. “What?”

  “You think I smell good?”

  Oh stars, are my thoughts leaking? “I didn’t say that.” I pulled back, my face a flaming ball of embarrassment, but his hands wouldn’t relinquish my waist.

  His head dipped as he tried to force eye contact, but I evaded the look, too mortified that I must have spoken the thought out loud. “Yes, you did,” he persisted. “Your exact words were—”

  “Don’t you need to stitch this up?” I blurted, jabbing a finger toward my temple.

  His lips curled knowingly, but he dutifully transitioned into doctor mode. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get right on it.”

  I bit my cheek. “And the other cut?”

  “What other cut?”

  “Where she—where my own dagger almost pierced my heart.” My earlier embarrassment faded at the vivid memory. Hollowness crept in once more.

  His expression grew pained, as if the memory hurt him as much as it hurt me. “Show me,” he said softly. I loosened the laces on my shirt and exposed the still-weeping wound directly over my heart. The brackets around his mouth deepened, as well as the crease between his brows. “I’m sorry for what you went through.”

  My hand dropped. “Pain is the price.”

  “The price of what?”

  “Freedom.”

  I heard keening, the sound of brokenness.

  Squinting, I peered into the fog, but couldn’t locate the source of the awful noise. No matter where I looked, the fog’s thick tendrils blocked my view. I whirled when a soft tsking came from behind my left shoulder, but no one was there. Still, I heard dark laughter.

  “You can’t see us, Pri
ncess. We’re dead. How many more will suffer before this is over? How many more will you destroy?”

  My fingernails bit into my palms. “I’m not trying to hurt anyone, Catanna. I just . . . I just want out. I need to find my mother before it’s too late. And this is the only way. I don’t have a choice!”

  She sighed in disappointment. “Wasn’t it you who said that you always have a choice? Oh, Lune, don’t you realize what you’ve become? A liar. You even lied to that precious beast of yours—the one you whispered false promises to for the last decade.”

  I had no defense against her accusations; they pried open my ribcage and punched my heart. A strangled sob left me and I didn’t bother stifling it. Wrapped in fog with no one to see, I let the shame and the guilt squeeze from my eyes. The emotions tasted like acid.

  “I’m sorry.” The words sounded broken.

  “Your tears and apologies cannot undo what you’ve done,” she spat. “You’re a monster, and monsters only deserve one thing. Death!”

  A black shadow stirred just beyond the gray wisps. The obsidian shape elongated, forming a sharp point, like a dagger. I blinked at it, completely frozen. Then it flew toward me, plunging into my heart. I screamed.

  My eyes jerked open. I could still hear the keening. It was in my head, in my chest, in my throat. I released a whimpering breath. My fingers poked and prodded at my heart. Still there, whole and frantically beating. A dream. A horrible, realistic nightmare that waking couldn’t erase. My knees buckled, striking the concrete floor.

  Panic seized me when I realized I wasn’t in my bed, but a quick glance around showed that I was still in my room. A chill slid down my spine when I noticed the damage I had caused. The blanket dangling over the side of my bed now had a new tear. Fresh slashes crisscrossed the room’s far wall. I looked down and saw a thin red slice along my right forearm.

  And next to me lay my hidden knife, blood darkening the blade’s tip.

  It had been awhile since I’d last experienced a waking nightmare, where the dreams were so strong, they became reality. This was different than sleepwalking, like the time I’d searched out Bren, instead landing in the hands of my enemies. No, this was much worse. Under its spell, my body was controlled by the nightmare, unpredictable and dangerous.