Reactive: A Young Adult Dystopian Romance (The Elite Trials Book 1) Page 4

My reply came out stiff, but at least it was free of emotion. “Thank you, sir. It would be an honor to train Mr. Bearon.”

  His face brightened in false appreciation, the intensity rivaling his white-blond hair. “Good. I knew I could count on you. Your new duties begin in two hours.” After my affirming nod, he dropped the third shoe. “Oh, and one more thing. I have a personal matter to discuss with you after lunch. You know where to meet me.”

  My gaze whipped to Rose, sitting across from me. Her malicious smirk confirmed my fears: she had told Renold about our earlier altercation. For the next hour, I avoided conversation by staring holes into my plate, listlessly pushing my food around. But I didn’t eat. My stomach would revolt against being filled anyway. Thoughts of what awaited me consumed every molecule of my being.

  I had endured worse over the years, but today had felt different.

  Although my wounds were shallow compared to previous ones, the look in Renold’s eyes as he had approached me in the cellar promised more than just pain—he wanted something from me. No, he needed something from me.

  When I had placed my hands against the chilled wall of our secret meeting place, Renold swept my hair over a shoulder, exposing bare skin.

  “You know I do this because you broke the rules, right? The rules cannot be broken. Ever.”

  “Yes, sir,” I had said, breath hitching. No matter how many times this happened, the moment before the first strike was always the worst. I wanted the punishment to start so that it could be over. But he took perverse pleasure in prolonging my torture. I heard his calm breathing as he slowly rolled up his sleeves. Heard the slither and creak of the two-foot-long leather whip being picked up, the same kind used on the chargers. I waited, an unstoppable quiver shaking my bones.

  A pause. “It’s about control, you know. Control your impulses, your wayward reactions. You are never to threaten a Tatum family member. Until you learn that . . .”

  The whip’s high whine alerted my senses a second before the pain hit.

  The sharp sting was manageable at first, but quickly morphed into a pulsing slap of heat. He struck again, stealing breath from my lungs and steel from my limbs. I almost crashed to the floor, knees knocking together as I fought to remain upright.

  You cannot break me, I chanted. The same chant I repeated during every punishment.

  “Beg,” Renold ordered coolly, composed as ever. I was glad I couldn’t see his serene face as he beat me. “Beg me to stop. Beg for mercy, you disloyal child.”

  He knew I wouldn’t. I never did. And I knew it drove him mad. The beating increased in pace, leaving me gasping and nauseous, my back a never-ending blaze of agony.

  Push past the pain. You are not weak!

  My nails dug into the unforgiving cement wall, gouging, scraping—a distraction from what lay behind me. For a blessed second, at least.

  With one final heave, the whip sliced through skin, then fell away. I bit my lip so hard, blood pooled on my tongue. I almost gagged on the coppery tang. My tormenter withdrew into a corner, locked the whip into a small wooden box and shrugged into his suit coat. The blanket he draped over my shoulders could almost be mistaken as a loving gesture, so gentle was his touch. He reminded me to take the back stairs, then slipped out of the room like a phantom.

  I waited for the retreat of his footsteps. Then waited another minute, just to be certain I was alone.

  Deafening silence.

  I finally gave in to my weakness and slid to the crimson-speckled floor, curling into a tight ball.

  My tears mingled with my blood.

  As I exited the house two hours later—now late for my new duties—I didn’t stop to soak up the sun’s warmth. My training gear kept rubbing against raw skin and fresh bandages—it was all I could do not to hunch over. My boots were heavy as I trudged down the house’s front steps. I began the trek to the stables in search of my . . . student. Bren was to meet me out front. Where was he? We had a long journey ahead of us.

  “Hey.” A hand touched my shoulder from behind. My reaction was pure instinct. I grabbed the wrist and yanked it forward, crouching as a body slammed into my back. For a second, the heavy weight pressing on my tender skin left me paralyzed, unable to draw air. Then a cry of rage ripped from my lungs as I heaved the attacker over my shoulder. The body flipped and smacked the ground with a jarring thud.

  Someone groaned loudly.

  After several moments of catching my breath, I looked down and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Bren blinked up at me.

  I was in so much trouble.

  “Sorry about that,” I wheezed, then cleared my throat. “Not fond of people sneaking up on me.” I offered my hand, not because I cared that he was hurt. If I didn’t play nice with Renold’s new pet, he might snitch on me.

  He waved my hand away, stumbling a bit as he rose to his feet. Huffing out a laugh, he replied, “I’ll remember that next time. Nice hip toss, by the way. You know judo?”

  Wait, what? He was impressed with the toss? And he wasn’t mad at me? My eyes narrowed on his face.

  “Yeah, I know judo. Do you?” I continued walking toward the stables—maybe a touch slower than before now that my back was cursing me for my antics—and he kept pace. Quite easily, in fact. His legs were ridiculously long.

  “A little,” he replied. “Self-taught, mostly. Life on the outside—Uh, let’s just say self-defense is a must.”

  I laughed mockingly, a surge of heat licking my neck. “I bet. Save anyone from danger with those fancy skills?”

  He looked at me like I had zapped him with a taser. I barely held in a derisive snort. What a pretender. The innocent act didn’t fool me.

  I gestured at the stables and spoke again before he could spin a tall tale. “This is the Equestrian Center. Inside are seventy-five highly-trained chargers.” As we entered, Bren whistled appreciatively. Several chargers poked their heads into the aisle in response. His eyes widened in wonder.

  “You’ve ridden a charger before, right?” I asked. If not . . .

  “No. Always wanted to though. I hear they’re wicked fast.” He stepped forward and reached toward one.

  I grabbed his wrist, stopping him just in time. “Don’t. Unless you feel like losing a hand.” The beast yawned and flashed its enormous teeth.

  Turning, I raised an eyebrow that said, See what I mean?

  Bren cleared his throat nervously. He should be nervous. Very nervous. “Thanks. Seems I have a lot to learn about this city.”

  You have no idea, pretty boy. You’re as good as dead. I kept my thoughts quiet by sheer force of will. This arrangement was growing worse and worse. Why had Bren been recommended for the Trials? He was a complete idiot. Renold’s newest game was beyond twisted.

  We moved to Stalin’s enclosure and I paused, studying Bren’s reaction. He had a look of awe on his face when he saw the black giant. My eyes rounded as Stalin craned his neck and sniffed at the newcomer, seeming for all the world like a docile creature. I blinked—hard. But the beast continued to sniff without baring his teeth. Was I hallucinating? I hadn’t eaten yet today after all . . .

  “Do you think he’d let me pet him?” Bren asked, a little boy’s hopeful face peering down at me. I did a double-take. Why did he have to be an animal person? Did villains pet animals?

  Apparently, they did.

  “Um, maybe. But offer him some meat first. There’s a bucket over there.” I pointed, hiding a smirk when Bren mouthed the word meat as he went to grab the food of carnivores. Was he expecting the beast to eat an apple?

  When he hesitated in his approach, I rolled my eyes, annoyed that I had to help him. Maybe I should just let his hand get bitten off. Then I wouldn’t have to train him.

  Pushing the morbid thought aside, I went to place my hand beneath his like Asher had done for me, but I couldn’t make my arm move. Ugh! I can do this. He’s just an overgrown boy, I scolded myself. But I couldn’t stop myself from adding: A lying, betraying giant of a bo
y.

  After a couple of false starts, my hand finally slid under his. He glanced at me in surprise, but I ignored the look, as well as the way my palm lit with warmth. Like holding a sunbaked rock. “Here. He’s somewhat accepting of my scent, so this should help with the introduction phase. Just . . . no sudden moves, okay?”

  I was still wary of Stalin. He probably wouldn’t mind sampling a piece of me. I fought the urge to pull away from the foreign sensation of touching this boy-turned-man. Instead, I nudged us closer to the hulking beast. Stalin seized the meat from Bren’s palm, making disgusting smacking noises as he chewed.

  “Lune?”

  Startled by the unexpected voice behind me, my hand jerked upward, whacking Stalin’s nose. Immediately the animal bellowed and lunged for the offending object. A scream lodged in my throat. I’m going to lose my hand!

  One second, big scary teeth were closing in on my fingers and the next I was spinning out of control, my body wrenched away from danger. I gasped, disorientated as the world tilted sideways and, yet, I somehow remained on my feet.

  “You all right?” The deep voice vibrated through my palms and I looked down, confused. What the—How come my hands are on a chest? A hard, muscular—

  I leapt backward, only to plow into another body. My back flared with pain and I swallowed another gasp. Fingers grasped my arms, steadying me. “Whoa, whoa! You okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” I recognized Asher’s panicked tenor and stopped myself from elbowing him in the gut.

  I eased out of his grip, inspecting my hand. Five intact fingers wiggled at me. “Thank the stars,” I breathed. Louder, I said, “It’s fine, Ash, no worries. I should have been paying attention.” I really should have. My new student was already turning into an unwelcome distraction.

  “Who’s he?” Asher ticked his head toward Bren.

  “Mr. Bearon is, uh . . . He . . .” I stammered to a halt. Heat fanned my neck, cheeks, and temples. The temptation to snarl “Meet my kidnapper” was overwhelming.

  “You can just call me Bren,” he said, completely at ease with the awkwardness that was me. He raised a hand for Asher to shake. “Miss Tatum has agreed to train me.”

  “Asher Donovan,” the stable boy replied, and they shook hands. And then Bren’s words finally sunk in. “Wait, train you?”

  “Yes. I’ve been told she’s the best. And I entered the city just this morning, so that would explain why you haven’t seen me around.”

  Asher’s eyes bugged out at that, and he looked to me for answers, but I wasn’t going to give him any. He was acting too friendly with us and that had gotten him into trouble more than once. He was too nice for his own good. I had to end this conversation. Now. Before Bren reported him for socializing above his station. “Don’t you have things to do, stable boy? Because if you don’t, I could always have a word with your boss . . .”

  Shock registered on his face, quickly replaced with hurt. I felt the weight of it, like a boulder sitting on my chest. I had to look away before I took the words back, making matters worse. I heard a mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.” Then he shuffled down the aisle and out of sight.

  My stomach cramped painfully, and I bit back a grimace. I never spoke to him that way. I might have just lost the only human friend I had.

  Bren was watching me—I could feel his heavy stare. I met his eyes, expecting to see approval, but what I saw sent my pulse tripping. Disappointment. Shame rushed through my veins, heating everywhere it touched, but I clenched my jaw, turning the emotion into anger. He was disappointed in me? He had no right. No right at all. Not after what he had done to me.

  I tore my gaze from his and inhaled a cooling breath. “So, we have a slight problem. You’ve never ridden a charger, and riding is the only way we could possibly visit all three Trial sites before nightfall. Maybe they have a couple of old bicycles around here . . .”

  “I’m fine with riding double. That is . . . if you are?”

  Was that a challenge? Because that certainly sounded—

  My eyes flicked to his again. They were suppressing . . . laughter?

  Yep. Definitely a challenge.

  I envisioned him sliding off Stalin’s rump and breaking a leg, too injured to train for the Trials. A tiny smirk formed on my lips.

  This could work.

  “Sure. We’ll take Stalin.”

  My grin stretched, and I didn’t even care if I looked downright evil.

  Ten minutes later, I was definitely not smiling.

  Bren had vaulted onto Stalin’s back without the aid of a mounting block or stirrup, now settling himself directly behind me.

  “I thought you said you’ve never ridden a charger,” I all but snapped. I rotated in the saddle, so I could see him better, and clenched my teeth as the movement agitated my wounds. He was such a liar.

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Uh, perks of being six-foot-four?”

  Holy stars, he really is a giant.

  “Is that seriously your explanation?” No way was I falling for that lame comment.

  He laughed, sounding uncomfortable, making me uncomfortable. Suddenly, the space between us felt thinner than paper. His chest was almost touching my back and hot revulsion surged up my throat. What was I doing? I couldn’t do this—not with anyone. But especially not with him!

  I was about to swing my leg over the saddle and call this whole thing off when he finally replied, “Okay, so I may have ridden a horse or two in the past. Not a charger, but a regular horse, yes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I spoke without thought, irritation heavy in my tone. I flicked my finger back and forth in the minuscule gap separating our bodies. “Was this your idea of making me uncomfortable? Because I don’t appreciate it.”

  In a rush, he said, “No, no, I didn’t mean to deceive you or anything. I’ve never ridden a charger before and just thought I’d learn best this way.” He scratched the back of his neck, looking apologetic. I almost believed him. Then, “So I make you uncomfortable?”

  With an irritated sigh, I faced forward. He was not going to get to me. I’d endure this painful trip even if it killed me. “Make sure you hold onto something, Mr. Bearon. Stalin’s gait isn’t exactly smooth, especially his takeoff.”

  I bit my cheek to rein in sinister laughter.

  This should be entertaining.

  Very entertaining.

  “Yeah, I’ll . . . maybe I can just . . .” His uncertainty eased my phobia at being so close to him. Maybe I could deal with this, after all.

  Before he could secure a handhold, my heels kicked Stalin’s sides, jolting us into motion. But my plan backfired terribly. Bren didn’t fall—didn’t even flinch. No, he wrapped his arms around me and held on tight. I could feel the length of his body brush against mine, scratching against my new wounds. A cry almost slipped past my tight-lipped grimace.

  The pain sent a fresh wave of fury through my blood and I urged Stalin faster, leaning as far away from the man behind me as I could.

  Maybe this trip wouldn’t kill me but resisting the urge to kill him was going to be harder than I thought.

  Tatum City was sprawling, yet rural. More a forest dotted with small villages, patches of farmland, and an over-sized house than an actual concrete-and-brick-infested, overpopulated city. The three Trial sites and their correlating training fields were spread out, separated by miles and miles of hills and trees, and I preferred it that way. Easier to avoid certain people I didn’t like, namely the elites and my peers.

  After several minutes of steady cantering, we arrived at the Rasa Rowe Trial site where silver high-rise stands encompassed an oblong track. Bren slid to the ground and offered me a hand, looking up expectantly. I glanced at the offer of help, then very deliberately dismissed it, jumping down on my own. Wrong move. Jolts of pain ran up and down my back, stealing my breath.

  “You all right?”

  With a shallow inhale, I straightened, and ignored the question. “How did you enjoy your
first ride on a charger, Mr. Bearon?” I slowly looped Stalin’s reins over the track’s outer fence.

  He didn’t reply right away and my jaw clenched. Finally, he said, “It was . . . fast. But I’ll admit, I was a bit distracted by all the red hair in my face. Spent most of the time dislodging it from my mouth.” His eyes laughed at me. “And please call me Bren. ‘Mr. Bearon’ makes me feel like an old, stuffy geezer.”

  My mouth opened so wide, an army of flies could have flown in. I choked, breaking into a fit of coughs. Geezer? What does that even mean? Giving my head a shake, I secured my wayward locks into a messy knot at the base of my skull. There. Problem solved. The thought of my hair brushing against his mouth . . .

  I grimaced. “So, this is the Rasa Rowe Trial site. It looks like a harmless racing track, but the inner walls and the ground hide obstacles meant to create a challenge.” Not to mention the objects thrown by the audience. They loved being able to participate in this Trial.

  “What kind of obstacles?”

  “The better question would be, ‘What obstacles aren’t there?’”

  Bren released a low whistle. “And you’ve practiced with these mysterious obstructions?”

  The question rankled my nerves. “Of course. I’ve been running the training track since I was ten years old.”

  “Well, color me impressed.”

  Wait, what? Was that a compliment? Or was he just teasing me? I squirmed. Either way, his words made me feel odd. I didn’t like it.

  “I don’t know what contracts you’ve signed, but the Rasa Rowe Trial is the one that requires you to have a charger. Only trainees with an elite patron can afford one of these beasts. Do you have a patron?”

  At that, his eyes probed mine. For some reason, he hesitated, like maybe he thought I wouldn’t approve of the answer. My lips tightened, unease twisting my gut as my mind connected the dots before he could confirm it.

  Finally, he said, “Yes. Your father.”

  My blood chilled. I knew Renold funded other trainees, but something felt different about his relationship with Bren. It was more than a calculated investment in a promising Trial’s contender. I needed to figure out their connection. My freedom counted on it.