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

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Text and cover design

  Copyright © 2018 Becky Moynihan

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. And resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Broken Books

  http://www.beckymoynihan.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7327330-1-5

  ISBN-10: 1-7327330-1-5

  Cover design by Becky Moynihan

  Cover model by Neostock

  http://www.neo-stock.com

  Edited by Jesikah Sundin

  http://www.jesikahsundin.com

  To my daughter,

  You are strong and brave and beautiful.

  Even when you’re afraid.

  Ninety seconds and counting.

  Water sought entrance into my mouth and nose. Long, undulating strands of hair blocked my vision. The pressure in my throat was unbearable. I couldn’t think, only feel. Just how I liked it. Ninety-five seconds. Ninety-nine. One hundred. My body bucked and writhed, the gnawing hole in my chest too great.

  I shot to the surface. Air hit my face and I inhaled a mouthful. More, more, until the ache in my starved lungs eased.

  “Yes!” I sputtered on a wet cough and smacked the lake’s surface. I had just beaten my best time.

  Holding my breath under water was a game of mine. Maybe a foolhardy one, but it was all I had.

  Under the water, I felt most at peace. All the noise and colors and cares of the world slipped away as fluid silence filled my being. And, in those moments of silence, I could more easily remember her face. Graceful lines, vibrant hazel eyes, sweeping dark locks. Her memory was now an impression than an actual image. Too much time had passed by since I’d last seen her.

  Soon, the weather would be too cold for my early morning swims in the lagoon—truthfully, it already was. But a moment of peace was worth the chill in my bones.

  I rubbed my eyes and frowned as the sun peeked through the trees. I wouldn’t have time for breakfast. Again. After wading to shore and unsticking a wet shirt that was determined to showcase my assets, I grabbed my boots and made a dash for the training barracks. I kept my eyes downcast for as long as I could, but the pull was too strong. My gaze flicked up past the tree line to the pale, castle-like structure sitting atop the waking horizon.

  My upper lip curled and I focused on my bare feet. From the multitude of windows, eyes were always watching. The attention warmed my chilled flesh—but not in a good way. And he could be watching. I broke into a sprint.

  Today was the same as any day. Outdoor training. Seven days a week—even during hail-studded downpours, skin-blistering heat, and frostbite-inducing winters. At the end of each day, I collapsed into bed only to do the routine again the next. But there was one minuscule difference about today, a milestone that no one here knew about.

  My birthday.

  I’d been alive now for eighteen years, but I’d survived the past eleven of those years in this prison they called a city. At its heart, the city was black because of the people in power. But, to the naked eye, it was a beautiful jail cell—miles and miles of thick pine and oak, rolling emerald hills, and lush grass. The great outer wall wasn’t even visible, its eastern gate a good three-mile walk from here, the city’s center. Despite the surrounding nature, a faint static hummed through the air and never stopped. Perhaps the sound was just a figment of my imagination, but the buzzing undercurrent taunted me. A reminder that I was nothing more than a trapped creature who was subject to the whims of her master.

  While the other trainees finished their breakfast, I jogged up the stairs to my room on the second floor, dripping a trail of water on the dull concrete. With a click, I locked myself inside the only place I felt relatively safe, then towel-dried my hair and set to work peeling off my wet shirt. A throb of pain punched my shoulder; I hissed, glancing at the dark purple bruise. Push past the pain, I berated myself and rolled my shoulder back. You are not weak.

  The memory of yesterday’s spill on the track sent a shiver down my spine. That obstacle shouldn’t have bested me. I should have seen the simple hurdle.

  My charger had suffered the most from our fall, sustaining a bloodied right foreleg. Her vet had prescribed a few days of rest before allowing her to work again. So today marked another new milestone. For the very first time, I would be riding a charger other than Freedom. Officially, my charger’s name was Cleopatra, but the name held no meaning. A wild light glinted in my beast’s eyes, one that refused to dim. She yearned for freedom—like me.

  Soon, I hoped to give her that very freedom. A fool’s dream, most likely, but one I desperately clung to.

  Every day I whispered of freedom in her twitching ears when no one else was around—a reminder to us both of why we trained so hard. Why we risked our lives. Why each challenge and hardship was worth the fight. Being free was more important than anything to us, but the only way out of this city was through the Trials. The problem was, no one had ever won all three Trials and earned Title of Choice, which also meant no one had ever exited the wall’s reinforced steel gates.

  Not that the people wanted to leave. The outside was dangerous, an unknown to most of the ignorant residents. They feared what lay beyond the wall and clung to the protection Tatum City offered. The Trials were created to form order and hierarchy, two things I’d been told were paramount to the success of a community. Those who dared contend in all three Trials only desired status and everything that came with a superior title.

  But I didn’t.

  Day in and day out I trained, my sole focus on beating my time, my aim, my endurance. I had to win. Not for a secure position in the city. No. I had to see her face again, before the impression became a wavering mirage. I had to find her. And I only had one chance at making that happen. If I lost in the Trials this year, that was it. No do-overs.

  I donned my protective training gear: a long-sleeved gray shirt tucked into le
ather pants, a thick leather vest snug across my chest, and knee-high boots. I stuffed my riding gloves into the waistband of my pants like I always did, not planning on wearing them. They were an unwanted barrier between me and the reins that controlled a ferocious animal. Besides their bite—which could sever a limb—the wiry coat and serrated mane and tail were a charger’s natural weapons. The tail alone acted as a whip, easily slicing through unprotected skin. That’s why the riders wore rawhide leathers. I had more calluses and scars on my palms than I could count from Freedom’s sharp mane, but the pain was worth it.

  Control was everything. Without it, I never would have lasted this long.

  Lastly, I grabbed the whip. The leather felt cold and cruel against my roughened fingers. I stifled a shudder. For a split second, my grip tightened and I imagined throwing the thing as hard as I could, watching with satisfaction as it sailed out of sight. But I couldn’t. Rules were not to be broken. I clipped the whip to my belt.

  Another rule—mandated five years ago—was a ban on using helmets. Helmets were for the weak, my trainers said. Proving one’s mettle was more important than safety. I snorted, thinking of all the head injuries I’d seen since then. The gory image of one man’s head, exploding like an overripe melon dropped onto concrete, would forever haunt me. Humans were no match against a vicious kick from an agitated charger.

  Before leaving the room, I peeked at myself in the small, broken mirror above my dresser. I looked like her. At least, I liked to think I did. Same hazel green eyes. My hair hung in long damp strands, almost black now. But once dry, slashes of brick red would chase the darkness away, especially when sunlight struck it just right. Sighing, I quickly tied the mass into a messy knot. A lock tenaciously fell over my left eye, a byproduct of my stubborn cowlick. I forced the strand behind my ear.

  “Who’s tough?” I poked a finger at my cracked reflection. “That’s right. You are.” My fake bravado was more than obvious. I scrunched up my nose and wrenched the bedroom door open. As soon as I stepped into the hall, I was swept into a sea of other trainees. Someone bumped into my sore shoulder and I clenched my teeth.

  “Watch it, tier five,” a short, dark-haired girl snapped. “Just because you have your own room doesn’t mean you can take up extra space in the hallway.” She pushed past me when I didn’t bother responding. These people were not my friends—they were competition.

  I’d discovered that fact in a most horrific way during my first year as a trainee. I’d asked a girl if she wanted to be my friend and received a bloodied nose for it. Soon after, a rumor spread that I was sniffing out trainee weaknesses and should be avoided at all costs. After several threats and bouts of hazing, I had learned my lesson: keep my mouth shut. Better to blend in than create enemies.

  We clamored down concrete stairs and burst into sunshine. I slowed, soaking in the warmth, but an elbow dug into my back.

  “What are you doing? Keep moving,” a guttural voice said.

  Before I could react, a young man with black hair stalked past, obsidian-edged blue eyes practically shooting venom my way. I quickly broke the stare but glanced at him again when something on his neck snagged my attention. It was a black tattoo, bold and striking. I squinted for a better view, but his long legs carried him away to his designated training field.

  I arrived at the stables a few minutes later and took a moment to breathe in the aroma of hay and horses. Well, not horses in the usual sense of the word. What little I knew of our land’s history suggested that the beasts in this stable did not exist one hundred years ago.

  But that was before the Silent War—a war of such epic devastation, the world was forever changed. The end didn’t arrive in clashing colors, fire and chaos, screams and bombs. No, the end stole over the land like a masked thief, invisible, untraceable. Silent as death. The who and why of the attack was still, to this day, a mystery. But the deaths had been global. The world’s population count was now back up into the millions, most people living in small rural communities since the old cities were overrun by wild beasts and clans. I had no clue if there were other cities like the one I was now trapped in.

  Whatever had been done a century ago altered the entire ecosystem, choking off at least ninety percent of all life. Yet, a few living organisms had survived and gradually adapted to a harsher habitat. Some of the animals became smarter, stronger. Some didn’t change at all.

  And others morphed into monsters. The new normal.

  Not all the predators were evil, though. Chargers were just extremely large carnivorous horses.

  As I entered the two-story stone building, I whistled and several curious equines leaned out of their stalls to watch me as I strolled by. A small smile bled onto my face at their response. I didn’t mind being noticed by these creatures. I was friends with them in a way I never could be with the humans in this place.

  I scooped out a slab of bloody meat from a bucket that was pegged to a support beam, then continued on my way. One of the chargers lunged for the meat and I danced to the side and out of biting range. “Tut-tut. This isn’t for you, jug head,” I chastised the impatient miscreant. Nearing the last of the stalls, I laid eyes on my favorite charger.

  She nickered at me, her harder-than-brick jaw rippling. I could barely see her pupils, her irises a glowing yellow in the morning light, like a lion’s.

  Despite her mutated appearance, my charger was sweet. I had been there as she entered the world, as she blinked at me with large, intelligent eyes and bobbed her head, like she was saying hello. Like she knew what I wanted most, communicating how she wanted it, too. Without hesitation, I petitioned to be her rider. I had been too young for the Trials at the time, but my guardians—my adopted parents—bound us together in a contract anyway. And now, no one could ride her but me.

  We shared a special bond. An unbreakable one.

  “Hey, Freedom,” I crooned as I approached her on silent feet. She grunted as I offered her the meat, her large teeth flashing as she snatched the juicy morsel from my palm.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday, girl. The fall was my fault,” I said, carefully stroking her prickly chestnut coat. She eyed me sideways, looking far too accusatory for my liking. I sighed. “If anything had happened to you, I—”

  But I didn’t finish the thought. If anything happened to her, it would break me. My throat tightened. These feelings I had for her, they were dangerous. If anyone discovered how strongly I cared for this beast, they would use those emotions against me in the Trials. People controlled through weakness. I had to be more careful.

  I only knew of one soul in this entire messed-up prison who wouldn’t—

  “Thinking about me?”

  Startled by the voice in my ear, I spun, almost punching the person behind me. My fist stopped just shy of his nose. Freedom shook her head, agitated at the interruption. “Asher Donovan! One of these days you’ll learn. I almost rearranged your face!”

  The stable hand grinned, unfazed as I smoothed a hand down Freedom’s nose. “Sorry, Lune. But was I right? Your cheeks are as red as your hair.”

  I snorted. “My cheeks are always red. Thinking about food makes them turn red.”

  His dimples puckered. As fast as they appeared, they winked out. “That was quite the spill you two took yesterday. Do me a favor, will you? Don’t get yourself killed out there.”

  I waved his concern away as usual. “I’m fine. We’re both fine, actually. Minor scrapes and bruises. Comes with the Rasa Rowe contract.”

  “Oh, that reminds me, I’m here for a reason—not just to chat your ear off.” He chuckled. “Your father—” He choked on the word when he saw the look I gave him. Asher knew better than to call my guardian that. “Sorry. I meant to say ‘Renold.’” When I nodded, he continued. “Renold asked me to introduce you to your temporary charger. Come on, he’s this way.”

  Dread weighted my ankles as I followed him down the aisle. I’d never ridden, let alone socialized, with another charger before. Some of them
were unattached to a rider, contract-free for one reason or another. Usually either too young or too wild. Anyone brave—or stupid enough—could ride them. But without a mutual respect between beast and rider . . . things could get ugly fast.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Lune.” Asher glanced at me. “Stalin is a handful . . . but so are you. Your temperaments are similar.” A dimple slowly indented his cheek. I whacked the back of his head.

  Laughing, he casually bumped my uninjured shoulder with his. “Okay, I deserved that.” He stopped in front of a stall and ran a hand through his ash-blond locks, making the strands stick straight up. Why was it that boys looked cute with messy hair, whereas I looked like an electrocuted squirrel? “Here he is.” He ticked his head toward the stall, then crossed both arms over his chest.

  I stepped up to the window and peered inside. Immediately, a dark blur rushed me and, on instinct, I leapt back out of biting range, crashing into Asher in the process. Arms wrapped around my middle, preventing a tumble to the cement floor.

  “Whoa! He doesn’t like people much. Sorry about that,” Asher said.

  “Hm. Maybe we are alike after all,” I muttered, shaking off my nerves and Asher’s touch at the same time.

  “Here, let me help.” Asher went over to a meat bucket and returned with a sizable chunk, placing it in my palm. “I’m just going to put my hand underneath yours when you offer him the meat. He trusts me, so it should work.”

  “Okay,” was my only reply. You can do this, I told myself. It’s not a monster. Just a horse with a craving for blood. No big deal. I felt Asher slide behind me and my back stiffened. Now this was a big deal. He had given me the courtesy of a warning, but it wasn’t enough.

  I focused on my breathing as the warmth of his body pressed close, suffocating me. I bit my lip, forcing myself not to react. It’s just Asher. He’s harmless as a snail. His hand underneath mine was almost my undoing, but I held it together, my breaths shallow. His touch right now was only for Stalin to smell a familiar scent. To further distract myself, I asked, “So are we still a go for tonight?”