Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy Book 2)
Chapter 3

I’m shocked he can’t hear my pounding heart, feel my burning gaze as it trails over him.

I shift, my stomach sliding across the rough roof as I peek over the edge. Pain sears down my leg, drawing my attention to the crudely bandaged slice on my thigh. I bite my tongue, holding in a cry along with a string of colorful curse words. The hastily torn hem of my spare shirt is already a revolting shade of crimson atop the wound, forcing me to turn my attention on the figure below, unable to stand the sight of it.

But I can’t stand the sight of him, either.

I already know what his remark would be if I’d told him that to his smirking face—You’re a terrible liar, Gray.

My eyes roll at the thought before they travel over him, taking in his messy black waves falling wherever they please across his brow. He’s crouching beside the Imperial I’d gifted with a knife to the chest, his profile grim, gray eyes skimming over the man’s face. Then he drops his head into his hands, looking equally frustrated and fatigued.

The sight the Enforcer fills me with rage, but I force myself to focus on him rather than the blood blooming across the Imperial’s white uniform.

I swallow, suddenly feeling sick at the thought. Tears stung my eyes when I let that knife fly into the man’s chest, blurring my vision as his body crumpled to the ground.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

I don’t know if he heard my pleading apology, don’t know if he saw the sorrow in my eyes before I dragged myself onto the roof of a shop when the sound of footsteps echoed off the walls.

I blink away the memory, the tears, and instead choose to focus on the Enforcer mere feet away from me.

I could kill him. Right here, right now.

There’s suddenly another throwing knife clutched between my stained fingers, my trembling hand.

“Promise me you’ll stay alive long enough to stab me in the back?”

His words to me after that first ball echo in my mind.

I could make good on that promise.

With the way he’s positioned, his back is exactly where I would bury this blade. The hilt of the dagger grows sweaty in my palm, but I tighten my grip.

Do it.

There’s suddenly a lump in my throat that I furiously try to swallow. The boy beneath me killed my father, has killed dozens of Ordinaries in the name of the king. And I am his next target.

I hate how I’m hesitating.

Do. It.

I raise my arm, fingers trembling around the knife. The movement makes my brand burn, stretching the skin and the reminder engraved there.

O for Ordinary.

He suddenly shifts, lifting the Imperial’s mask and closing his unseeing eyes with a gentleness that doesn’t belong to the Enforcer—a gentleness I wish I hadn’t witnessed.

“She would have buried you if she weren’t so busy running from me, you know.”

My breath hitches; my heart hammers.

He’s right. I would have dragged this man to the nearest patch of dirt and dug him into the ground if I could have. As if that would right the wrong I’d done. As if that would make up for the fact that I never buried my best friend or father.

The symmetry in their deaths was sickening—both of them bleeding out in my arms before I ran.

“So the least I can do is bury you for her.”

That one soft sentence cuts through me like a knife, making me nearly drop the one clutched in my hand. I stare, stunned, as he heaves the man over his shoulder and staggers to his feet.

Kai.

That is who I see before me. Not the Enforcer. Not one of the many masks he slips on. Just him.

I hate it.

I hate that I got to see a glimpse of that boy again. Because it is so much easier to hate him when it’s not him I’m hating at all, but the Enforcer he was molded into.

I watch as he makes his way out of the alley with the man I killed slung over his shoulder. Kai does nothing without reason, leaving me to baffle over his kindness.

And when he disappears around the corner, I’m suddenly wondering why I showed him kindness.

The stars are flirtatious things, always winking down in the darkness.

But they make for good company, surrounding me with their countless constellations. I’ve been lying on the roof of this run-down shop for hours, watching day melt into dusk and dusk fade into darkness.

The sun had sunk deep into the horizon before the Imperials’ echoing shouts slowly sputtered out. Eventually, the sounds of their shuffling boots on uneven cobblestone died as I stared at the sky, willing it to darken.

When the last streaks of purple bleed from the canopy of clouds, leaving a black blanket smothering all of Ilya, I finally stand to my feet and stretch. My body aches—a feeling I’ve grown familiar with—but the fresh wound I earned today is especially painful. At the sudden movement, blood begins to trickle down my thigh, carving a crimson path down my leg. I can’t stand the sticky feel of it, reminding me of the blood I will never be able to wash off my hands.

Climbing down from the roof is an embarrassingly slow process, but as soon as my feet hit the street, I’m slipping into the shadows. I limp through quiet alleys, avoiding the homeless who have begun to hunch back into their familiar corners for the evening.

There are Imperials crawling everywhere. They quietly pace down the streets, heads swiveling, eyes searching the darkness for me. That makes things both complicated and completely annoying. I dodge them in the dying light, doing my best not to drip a trail of blood across the cobblestones while weaving through alleys.

I turn down a dark street littered with uneven stones—

A rough hand clamps down around my shoulder, the grip anything but gentle. I duck my head, catching oiled black boots out of the corner of my eye as the scent of starch slams into me. I don’t hesitate before hooking my foot around the man’s ankle and tugging, sending him sprawling to the ground, startled. I’m on him in a matter of seconds, slipping the dagger from my boot and sending the hilt of it down against his temple, silencing his strangled cry of surprise.

The thin Imperial is barely more than a boy, now lying in an unconscious heap on the shadowed cobblestones. My heart beats wildly, forcing me to take a breath before I struggle to drag him farther into the alley, hiding him deeper in the darkness.

Reaching the outskirts of the Scorches Desert is a slow and severely frustrating journey. I never imagined that I would be relieved to see the wide stretch of sand before me, but after hours of slinking in the shadows and narrowly avoiding getting caught, the sight is enough to make me smile despite the pinch of pain it causes.

There are very few Imperials stationed on the border of the Scorches, seeing that the citizens of Dor and Tando know better than to visit Ilya and be mistaken as an Ordinary. Isolation is what Ilya does best, ensuring the Elite society continues to thrive without being tainted by those without abilities.

The thought makes me angry. The truth of it makes me sick.

And with fury fueling each one of my steps, I begin stomping my way through the sand. It shifts under my boots before eventually slipping into them, making this journey impossibly more uncomfortable.

The hours tick by as I trudge forward. I occupy myself by racking my tired brain, trying to recall the maps my father would spread before me as a child. I’m not entirely sure how far the desert spans, which makes me feel entirely foolish for thinking I could survive this with my injuries.

As if I have any other options.

I sigh, submitting to the fact that Death has cornered me on all sides, forcing me to face him head-on. My memory of the maps is vague, but I suspect that if I continue at my current pace, I’ll make it to Dor in roughly five days. That is, if I can manage to walk for nearly the entire time—which could potentially end in me collapsing, allowing Death to finally claim me.

Well, there’s only one way to replace out.

The night grows cold, the temperature plunging as I head deeper into the desert. My dirty, pocketed vest is far more useful for thieving than it is for warmth—and that’s exactly why she made it. I run my thumb over the rough, olive fabric, remembering the soft, brown hands that stitched it together.

“Promise you’ll wear it for me?”

The image of Adena dying in my lap, whispering her final request, flashes in my mind, only forcing my feet faster. Even if I had the time, I know I wouldn’t be sleeping much on this journey—or ever.

Because, in the quiet moments before sleep steals me, I watch Adena die all over again. As if my eyes shutting is an invitation to relive that horror. The blunt branch through her chest, her bound and broken fingers, her body covered in blood…

My own blood begins to boil at the thought of Blair’s smirk as she guided the branch through Adena’s back with nothing but her mind.

I’m going to kill her.

I’m unsure of how, or where, or when, but Adena wasn’t the only one who wouldn’t make promises unless she could keep them.

I rummage through my pack before pulling on the worn jacket that belonged to my father. It’s far too large, and yet, nothing has ever fit me more perfectly. I shove my hands into the pockets, shivering slightly as I continue pushing through the sand.

The hours creep by, stealing the darkness and replacing the sky with streaks of orange and the promise of a sweltering sun. My breaks are brief, only long enough to rest my sore legs as I eat my rations and drink my warm water. I frequently inspect my wounds, taking extra care with the fresh one along my thigh.

A gift from him.

The bloody gash is his handiwork—I’m sure of it. The sheer accuracy of the throw alone could only belong to him, along with the idea to slice me open in order to get me off the rooftops. I would expect nothing less from the calculating Enforcer who’s so desperate to catch me.

All the more reason to pick up the pace.

I push my sore legs faster as I try to push him from my thoughts.

He’s coming for me.

My lips twitch at the thought, tugging at the scar trailing from my jaw.

And I won’t hesitate again.