Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy, #2)

by Lauren Roberts

For the reckless souls who dare to love and be loved

courtesy of the Imperial he doesn’t need to know I buried. For her.

Grief has morphed him into a man I’m wary of.

Kitt has no bond with my mother. Because she is exactly that—my mother. Not his.

“Is that her blood?” I falter, turning to face him.

“Do you want me to execute the children, then?” My chest heaves, heart hammering against sore ribs.

Falling for her was fatal.

We eye each other, both content to drown in our shared delusions.

Pulling off the thick ring I was given the day I became Ilya’s Enforcer, I place it on his desk. “Give it back to me when I’ve earned your trust again.”

Her lips split into a smile, her eyes roaming over my face. There goes the ache in my chest, feeling like a blunt knife. “Hello, Prince.”

“I have a gift for you,” she says smoothly, smiling sweetly. “Something to remember me by.”

Her fingers are fisted around a drooping bundle of du...

Forget-me...

“What is it?” she asks, far too innocently. “What’s wrong, Malakai?” I gasp, gaping at the sticky blood now drenching her hands, dripping down her arms. Each flower stem is stained a sickening red, dulling its vibrance, wilting in her palm.

I suddenly identify the ache emanating from my chest. It’s my heart. That’s when I remember what it is I must do with her.

My breath comes in fast pants as my eyes sweep over my body. I’m dripping in death.

“Go ahead,” she challenges, her voice quiet. “Spill my blood and wear it with the rest.” I scream. My eyes fly open.

WOAHHHHH WOA WOAH

No one else glimpses the gleam of silver hair in the sunlight, or the outline of her figure atop a dune. Because no one else is going insane.

I doubt even the desert is a strong enough force to take her from this world before she’s ready. The Scorches will soon learn of her stubbornness.

It’s dangerous, how much I think of her. How much everything reminds me of her. How much I wonder if everything was a game to her, a ploy to help the Resistance.

I press a calloused palm to the stubborn beat of my heart, proof that broken things can still serve a purpose.

“I’m just… I’m just closing… my…” My eyes flutter closed; the world shut out by a single blink. And for the first time in days, I don’t dread the sleep that awaits me.

A heartbeat thuds beneath my ear. I stir in the strong arms surrounding me, my senses sluggish. Strong arms. I’m being carried.

I stare at the young man as I stagger back, the heels of my palms sinking into the sand. I killed him. I killed again.

But I don’t intend to leave. Or lose. No, I’ve made more from winning these matches than I ever did in a month of thieving back in Ilya.

It took Slick nine seconds to smack the mat aggressively with his free hand, succumbing to his defeat. I’ve won.

But it’s not my voice that echoes through the cellar. No, it’s a voice that chills me to the bone, though it used to set my blood ablaze. Used to have me hanging on every word and aching for the next time I’d hear it.

Yet there it is, strong and sure and so damn cocky as it snakes its way down my spine. “So, is Shadow up for another round?” He’s found me.

Who would have thought I’d be capable of such cruelty, such crippling sadness? Maybe Father would like this version of me.

Kai’s harshness can be found even in the slant of his letters, the heaviness of the ink. I don’t envy him. Not truly. Not intentionally.

Kai was the king Father wanted. It was as clear as the obvious distaste they shared for one another.

Father hated that he wasn’t the heir. Hated that the king he wanted was thwarted by the son he had first. I wasn’t Kai, and it killed him.

But today, today I’m feeling rather bold. Today I open the curtains before immediately regretting that rash decision.

Father and his subtle encouragement to spend time with her. The feelings Kai is fighting while hunting her down.

A variation of words I’ve strung together before. A ballad of betrayal, a sonnet of sorrow. I’m tired of writing from the villain’s perspective.

I’ve found her. In the middle of a damn fight, of all things. I shouldn’t be surprised.

I know the face behind that fabric. Know the freckles that fleck that nose, the silver hair that glints in the sun.

Know the lean body hidden beneath layers of clothing, concealing the waist where my hand fits perfectly, ribs scarred by a spear in the Whispers Forest.

Two weeks ago, those words would have held a very different meaning, one I’m not allowing myself to ponder any further.

Every bit of training screams at me to handle this delicately, deliberately. But where’s the fun in that? I’ll handle her as delicately as she did my father.

And that’s when I open my mouth. “So, is Shadow up for another round?” It’s as though I had screamed.

Her head whips in my direction with such fervency that I struggle to ignore the memory of how she used to relax at the sound of my voice.

But now, seeing the disdain she stares me down with, I realize that drowning alone wasn’t what I craved, but sinking together.

this speaks so much volume

She hasn’t held that dagger since she buried it in the king’s neck.

But here, she is no one. Here, I am nothing. Here, we are forgotten.

She is no one. I am nothing. We are forgotten. And this is meaningless.

“So, prove it.” Her face angles up toward mine, our noses brushing.

“Prove it,” I repeat, voice quiet. “Hate me enough to make me want you.” I cup her jaw, feeling her eyes burning into mine. “Ruin me.”

Our mouths crash ...

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS

She spells out a promise, leaving it to linger on my lips. A vow to undo me. ...