Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy Book 2)
Chapter 41

Kai grunts against my ear, pain ripping the sound from his throat.

His hand slips from my mouth, unmuffling the sound of my scream.

“Kai!”

He slowly sinks to his knees, displaying the deep gash stretching across the length of his shoulder. I saw the flash of an arrow before it tore through his skin, splitting flesh in an instant. I drop down beside him, hands on his face and heart in my throat. “Are you okay?”

“Bandits,” he strains, ignoring my question. “I won’t be much help.” Another arrow wizzes past my head.

“I can see that,” I say, carefully pulling the bow from his back. He hisses through clamped teeth when I bump his wound. “We need to get out of the road. Now.” I nod to a cluster of stones no more than a few yards away. “Can you make it there?”

“It’s my arm, darling, not my leg,” he grits out.

“Perfect.” I stand to a crouch, pulling him up with me. “Then you should have no problem keeping up.”

We run toward the rocks, hearing arrows whistle past us. Kai pushes himself between me and the persistent arrows, blocking my body with his own. That’s why I gasp in surprise when the tip of an arrow manages to graze my calf.

It stings, sending searing pain shooting down my leg. I can feel the blood tickling my skin as we duck behind the rocks, stealing refuge from their size.

Ignoring my own wound, I turn to his far more worrying one. Blood stains his skin, engulfing the shoulder underneath. The sight has me suddenly swallowing my rage, seeing a shade of red that has nothing to do with the blood running down his skin.

He’s hurt. And I hate it.

That realization might just anger me more.

Because it is then that I understand just how terribly I will hurt anyone who dares hurt him.

My eyes trail back up to his, my stomach churning at the sight of so much blood—the blood that someone so carelessly spilled. The thought has me slipping on a mask of my own, smothering everything but the icy anger cooling my features.

I ignore the feel of his eyes, focusing only on the task at hand. I arrange the arrows so their feathered shafts can be easily grabbed from the pack before I sling it onto my shoulders.

The bow is hot in my clenched fist. My eyes drift back to his, replaceing something akin to awe on his face. My voice is even, my face cold. “I’ll be sure to make them pay.”

I watch him take a heavy breath. “Can’t stand to see me wounded?”

I take a step back, my eyes on his. “Only when it’s my doing.”

The last thing I hear as I step from behind the rocks is a fervent “Be careful. For me.”

And then I’m pulling an arrow from my pack, settling it onto the bow, blowing out a breath, and firing at the first figure I see.

The man crumples when my arrow sinks into his chest. I quickly crouch back down, ignoring the fact that I’m aiming to kill. But I only have four more arrows, and I can’t afford to waste a single one.

A cool sort of calm settles over me as I step out into the road. My movements are practiced, my mind still. It all happens so fast that I hardly register knocking another arrow.

I duck behind a set of boulders, feeling an arrow skim past my head. Knowing which direction the arrow came from, I stand and fire at the shoulder sticking out from behind a stone. The arrow hits close enough to the heart that he collapses quickly.

I stride back out into the road, hearing nothing but the gravel grinding beneath my boots. Instinct has me turning to fire at a shadow, replaceing a man with a bow trained on me. It crumples to the ground with the rest of him when my arrow meets his heart.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

I replace cover behind another group of stones, scanning the surroundings until an arrow comes flying toward me. I duck before it can sink between my eyes. “Found you,” I whisper, knocking my arrow.

When I stand, he fires another, narrowly missing my shoulder. I don’t hesitate before letting an arrow fly toward the head that appears over the rocks. I watch the point tear through his neck, severing tendons and spraying blood.

I hear the thud of his body hitting the dirt.

It’s that sound that wakes me from my stupor.

I shiver despite the icy anger melting away. The road I now stand in seems to spin beneath my feet. Ears ringing and heart racing, I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that could hide me from what I’ve done.

The bow grows slick in my sweaty palm. I drop it numbly to stare at my hands. I can almost feel the blood coating them. The blood of those I killed. When Father taught me to fight, I know this is not what he had in mind.

No, not my father. Not truly.

Even still, I’m a failure. More than a disappointment to him. I’m a disgrace. A mockery of everything he taught me to be.

I’ve taken lives. Multiple lives. Seven, to be exact. And I can hardly breathe under the weight of guilt crushing me.

“Hey.”

I spin at the voice, raising my loaded bow into the face of another man.

Kai.

It’s Kai. I’m okay. I don’t have to hurt him.

His fingers are warm beneath my chin as he guides my face to his. I blink slowly, taking in his crinkled brow and icy eyes. “You’re done, okay? You did it.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, more gently than I deserve. “I wish I could have done it for you. My soul is already stained enough for the both of us.”

His voice sounds far away, separated by a flood of thoughts. I shake my head, swallowing hard. “I think you underestimate how much I’ve stained my soul as of late.”

I could drown in the bodies now beginning to pile at my feet. I never wanted to be this. I am nothing, and yet, I’ve taken everything from others. Maybe this is how I’ve managed to evade Death for so long—by satisfying him with souls that aren’t mine.

Kai’s smile is soft, forcing my focus back to him. “The fact that you even care about your soul means you’re still far better than most.”

I stare at him for a long moment, letting his words sink in. Letting myself pretend that I believe them. It’s only when he moves to lean against a stone that I remember he’s wounded. The arrow gash is deep and long, dripping blood down his back.

“Shit, Kai, why are you talking about my soul when you’re bleeding all over the place?” I shake my head, moving to crouch behind him.

“I like talking about your soul,” he grits out as I gingerly touch the skin around the gash.

“And why is that?” I say distractedly.

“Maybe,” he breathes, “I’m envious of it.”

I swallow. “There is nothing about me to be envious of.”

“Then you don’t know yourself well enough.”

“What,” I huff, “and you do?”

He’s suddenly struggling to his feet with a grunt. “You can deny it all you want, but we both know I do.”

“And where do you think you’re going?” I ask beneath him. “Well, where are we going?”

“I want to be at least slightly comfortable while I bleed out.” He extends a hand to me that I don’t bother taking before standing to my feet. “I’m hoping for a cave.”

“You’re not going to bleed out….” I pause, skeptical. “We are nearing the caves?”

He nods. “We’re almost at the edge of the Sanctuary now. The stretch of caves is right before the field separating us from Ilya.”

“Perfect,” I say dryly. “Almost home.”

We step out from behind the stones and back onto the path. Walking in silence, I glimpse the first body slumped over a cluster of rocks and quickly look away. My stomach twists at the reminder of what I’ve done, at every body I now have to face. The weapon I killed with is back in my hand, sweaty and seemingly harmless as it dangles toward the dirt.

Though, in a way, it is. A weapon is only deadly if it’s used. And a bow only kills if I fire the arrow for it.

Even with my eyes on the ground, I know each time I pass a body. I feel the weight of what I’ve done with each step. Kai stays quiet beside me, knowing exactly what this must feel like. What it is to kill and live with each ghost.

I hear dirt crunching beneath a boot behind us.

I spin at the sound, lifting an empty bow.

He’s scrawny, much smaller than his fellow bandits—it’s no wonder I missed him among the rocks. He holds a bow in shaky hands, straining to keep it trained on Kai.

And before I can blink, he fires.

I don’t think before stepping in front of the prince I’m supposed to hate. Time seems to slow as the arrow flies toward me. Reflexes take control of my body, forcing me to raise my empty weapon.

I swipe the bow through the air, hearing wood connect with the arrow’s shaft before I’ve even registered what’s happened. The arrow falls to the ground in a blur, its tip buried in the dirt.

I look up to replace the man’s expression mirroring my own. Utter shock is etched across his face at what I’ve managed to do. I take advantage of his hesitation and reach behind me to slide an arrow from where it sticks out of my pack.

It’s laid across my bow a heartbeat later.

My fingers curl around the string—lungs constricting, breath catching in my throat.

I loosen my grip on the bowstring, ready to let the arrow fly—

A blur cuts through the air, flipping until it sinks into the man’s chest.

I blink, looking down at the arrow still notched on my bow.

When my eyes trail back up to the man, he’s clutching his chest where the hilt of a knife now protrudes.

I turn, replaceing Kai standing beside me, clutching his wounded shoulder. “There,” he says, sounding pained. “That’s all taken care of.”

I glance back at the man falling face-first into the dirt. “How did you…?”

“Left arm,” he says casually. “Still hurt like hell though.”

“I had that handled.” I look away, avoiding his gaze. “I was… I was going to do it.”

He steps between me and the man, blocking my view of Death coming to claim him. “I know. I know you had it handled. You made that very obvious when you batted an arrow out of the air.” He shakes his head at me, a smile drawing out his dimple. “But, like I said, my soul is stained enough for the both of us. And you’ve killed enough for me already.”

I look away, unsure what to say. Unsure how to tell him exactly how much that meant to me. So, I settle on a soft “Thank you.”

“That sounded painful,” he says, smirking like the asshole he is.

“Well, thanking you isn’t exactly something I’m used to doing.”

“I think it’s just manners in general that you aren’t used to,” he says, starting down the path again.

He pulls me along while I shake my head at his back, aware that this is all just a distraction from the death happening behind us. “Oh, and you are so well-mannered?”

“Considering that I’ve had numerous tutors and years of education, yes, I would say so.” His voice is strained with pain. “I’ve been taught how to hold myself in court and amongst nobles. How to speak to women and—”

I snort. “You mean flirt?”

“No, that’s always come naturally, darling.”

I’ve finally caught up to walk beside him. “Does being an ass come naturally too, or is that something they taught you in the palace?”

His lips twitch as he considers my question. “Naturally. But I can’t take all the credit.” He looks me over. “You bring it out of me.”

I look away, scanning the stones as an excuse to look anywhere but at him. The terrain has grown rougher, impossibly rockier. The walls on either side of us are high and dotted with scattered hollows. Most are too small to call a cave, but my eyes snag on the mouth of one that looks promising. I vaguely wonder which one of these is home to the first queen herself.

“How’s that one?” I point.

Sweat beads on his brow; pain pulls at his mouth. When he simply nods, not offering any sort of sly comment, I know he’s in a great deal of discomfort.

The sun beats down on us as we slowly make our way to the cave. Blisters scream at me with each step as skin rubs against boot. I bite my tongue, knowing that what the Enforcer feels beside me is much worse.

Shadows drape over us when we finally step into the cave. Light seems to be swallowed up in here, making the cavern feel as though we’ve stepped into the evening.

“Sit,” I order sternly.

He keeps his eyes on mine as he obeys, lowering himself to the ground. “What are you doing, Gray?”

I crouch behind him, carefully lifting his bloody shirt to examine the wound. “What does it look like I’m doing, Azer?”

“It looks like you’re caring about me,” he says with a smirk seeping into his voice. “And it feels like you’re undressing me.”

I huff. “Don’t be too flattered. I can’t have you becoming a deadweight, now can I?”

He grunts in pain when my fingertips brush the tender skin around the wound. The smell of blood stings my nose, forcing me to take a deep breath before saying, “I don’t have anything to stitch this up with. All I can do is wash it out and wrap it.”

“Great,” he grits out. “Let’s get it over with, yes?”

“But it needs to be stitched,” I say sternly. “It could get infected.”

“We’ll be back in Ilya by tomorrow,” he says calmly. “The bandage will stop the bleeding long enough. I’ll heal myself when we get there.”

“Right.” I nod, swallowing at the sight of blood. I grip the hem of his shirt to carefully pull it over his head. He hisses when it tugs at his wound. With a gentle hand on his back, I urge him to lie on his stomach.

Back bare and stretched out before me, thick blood pools on his skin. I can barely see the slice beneath it, and the metallic scent stings my nose. “Tell me something,” I manage weakly.

“Tell you something?” His laugh is pained. “Is this really the best time for—”

“Yes,” I cut in. “It can be anything, just… just talk to me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, needing a distraction from the feel of his blood on my fingertips and the sight of it spilling over his skin. Something in the way he stills tells me he’s starting to understand.

“All right.” His voice is strained. “The truth, then?”

“The truth, always,” I murmur.

A long pause. “Sometimes I’m envious that you were the one to kill my father.”

My eyes fly open to blink bewilderedly at the back of his head. “W-what?”

He manages a sigh. “I’ve spent my whole life fantasizing of doing what you did. I’m not proud of it. But every time he would cut me, scream at me, or force me to face a fear over and over again, I fought the urge to hurt him back. And Plague knows I could have.” He quiets, voice strained. “It consumed my every thought. Because before I hated him for everything he did to me, I hated him because he hated Ava. He never admitted it, of course, but I knew. I knew he hated that she was weak, knew that he thought she was a disgrace to the family name.”

I reach slowly for one of the canteens we refilled with rainwater, distracted by the secrets spilling from his lips. “But I couldn’t ever bring myself close to doing it.” He sighs. “No matter how hard he trained me or hated the people I loved, he was still my father. Blood and duty run deeper than hatred.”

I’m quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the dimly lit wall of stone before us. “And I did what you secretly wish you could have done yourself.”

“And the worst part,” he murmurs, “is that I’m supposed to hate you for it. But you are much harder to hate than he was.”

We have little water left to spare, and horrifyingly, I don’t hesitate before pouring most of it over his wound. Because, despite it all, I’ve come to realize that there is little I wouldn’t sacrifice for him.

I don’t allow myself to dwell on that sudden discovery.

“Shit,” he hisses, feeling the water sting as it seeps into his gash. “I take it back. Maybe you aren’t so hard to hate,” he grits out.

Blood is dripping down his back, staining his skin red in the dim light. My hands are covered in it, every finger sticky and smelling of the death I’m all too familiar with.

I don’t play with him. I don’t tease or take his mind off the pain. Instead, I look away as I wash out the wound, unable to stare at the stream of red. I rip fabric from what’s left of my skirt with shaky hands. I use bloody fingers to tuck the makeshift bandage beneath his chest.

Breathing heavy, I lean over his back to pull the fabric around the wound.

My braid slips from behind my shoulder, swinging until…

It drags across the pool of blood beginning to well again atop his wound.

I suck in a breath before clamping a hand around the middle of my braid, ready to toss it back over my shoulder.

My hand sticks to the hair inside my palm.

I look down slowly, my whole body shaking.

Blood is streaked through my hair, dripping from the ends and smeared from my hand. I swallow the growing lump in my throat as I tug my hand away to stare down at the blood coating it.

I smell nothing but death, hear nothing but the ringing in my ears.

I think Kai is saying something, but I ignore him as I fumble with the fabric, bloodying it as I rush to cover the wound.

I tie it off with a muffled gasp, reaching for the canteen. I manage to drain the last few drops of water into my palm before violently scrubbing my hands together. Blood swirls over my skin, running down my wrists and—

“Gray.”

His voice is stern enough to snap me out of my frenzy. I’m not sure when he sat up, but he’s facing me now, resting a gentle hand on my leg. “What’s going on?”

I shake my head, fighting the tears that threaten to fall. “It’s nothing…. It’s…” My gaze falls to my hands and the blood coating them. The same hands that held the dying bodies of those I loved most. The same hands that are forever covered in their blood.

“It’s the blood,” he says softly. “You never used to be squeamish until…”

My heart thuds against my chest, making me feel faint.

All I smell is blood. All I feel is guilt.

“I… I can’t anymore,” I pant. “I can’t feel like this anymore. It’s all too much.”

I look down at silver hair stained red. The sight of my braid has me stilling, has me hating how much power blood now holds over me. It’s an effort to slow my breathing, to steady the beat of my heart.

A numb sort of anger suddenly smothers the panic coursing through me. I take a deep breath, lifting my gaze to his.

“Cut it off.”

His brows crinkle at my words, “What?”

“I want you to cut it off,” I say quietly. My face is blank despite the tears still clouding my vision. I run bloody hands over the length of my braid, staining it with each swipe.

Kai’s eyes follow my fingers, widening slightly in understanding. “Gray, maybe you should—”

“I want you to cut it off,” I whisper. “Please.”

“Hey, look at me,” he says softly, his hand straying to my face. “I will wash your hair, okay? The blood won’t be there forever—”

“Yes, it will,” I cut in loudly, my voice shaky. I blink back tears, forcing myself to hold his gaze as I do. “Yes, it will,” I repeat, whispering this time. “The blood will always be there. The blood of my father. The blood of my best friend. The blood of every person I have killed. It’s always there.” My voice cracks. “And I’m drowning in it.”

He shakes his head, running a thumb over my cheek. “Adena’s and your father’s deaths were not your doing.”

“Just because it wasn’t my doing doesn’t mean it wasn’t my fault,” I whisper.

“No, that’s not—”

“Please. I know you keep my dagger in your boot.”

He stills at my soft words. “I don’t want you to regret this.”

I shake my head at my bloody hands. “You don’t get it. This hair holds memories. And it’s heavy.” I turn slowly until my back is facing him, the loose braid hanging down the length of my spine. “Please, Kai.”

Silence.

Until there isn’t. Until I feel him reach for his boot. Until my braid is held gently in one hand while the other holds my father’s blade against it.

I feel his breath on my neck, hesitant and unsure.

A tear rolls down my cheek when I nod.

Lifting the braid from my neck, he begins dragging the blade through it.

Every bit of composure I had left crumbles at the sound of my hair being sliced off.

Tears tumble down my cheeks. I cry for my past, for the little girl who held her father’s hand until it grew cold. For the little girl who struggled to survive in a kingdom that hated her.

I cry for Adena—my sun in the darkness I was drifting toward. I can still feel her bloody body in my arms, see her broken fingers bound behind her back. I cry because death is undeserving of her. But she deserves my mourning, my every tear held back.

I cry for every time I felt as though I shouldn’t. For every time I felt as though it made me weak.

I feel the whisper of loose hair falling down my back, weight lifting off my shoulders.

When he pulls away, I hear the dagger clatter against the cave floor. I move my head, feeling light without the heavy curtain of hair cascading down my back. The freshly cut ends barely brush my shoulders, tickling my skin.

His hand is on my arm now, gently turning me around to face him. I put up a pathetic fight, not wanting him to see me like this. Eventually, he pulls my hands into his, grabbing our last full canteen from the pack. I watch as he uses his teeth to tear more fabric from the skirt before pouring a precious amount of water onto my stained hands.

He sits in silence, washing the blood from my hands. His touch is soft, as though I’m delicate, not fragile. As though he’s treating me with care because I deserve it, not because I need it.

He swipes the fabric across my palms, between my fingers, spending extra time around my fingernails. It’s only when my hands are spotless that he puts the fabric down and looks up at me.

Everything he does is intentional, a type of intimacy I’ve never felt before. Simply being so cared for has another tear rolling down my cheek before I can stop it. That’s all it takes for the flood of emotions to crash into me again.

I’m practically choking on my tears, breathing uneven. “Shh,” he murmurs. “You’re all right.”

He reaches a hand to my face, intending to wipe away the tears there. I shake my head, pulling away. “No, I don’t want you to see me like this. I don’t want you to wipe my tears away.”

He nods slowly, taking in my words. “Okay. Then I won’t.”

His hand slowly replaces mine from where it sits in my lap. I watch in confusion has he picks it up and lifts it toward his mouth.

Another tear escapes my eye when his lips brush against the pad of my thumb.

The action is so small, yet so significant. Now that I know the meaning behind it, I swallow at his willingness to share something so special with me.

But then he takes that thumb and guides it toward my cheek to wipe away a tear there. Then he pulls it back to his lips, kissing it again before using it to wipe away another one of my tears. “You’re strong enough to wipe away your own tears, but too stubborn to let someone care for you,” he murmurs.

He continues to kiss my thumb, helping me wipe away every tear decorating my face. My eyes are puffy, face splotchy, but he looks at me with a reverence reserved for religion.

When he’s kissed my thumb for the last time, I’m being pulled into his arms. My back is pressed against his bare chest, and he holds me tight despite his wound. A hand is running over my short hair, fingers brushing my neck.

“Thank you,” I whisper, placing my hand on the arm wrapped around my waist.

He leans his head against mine. “Are you feeling better?”

I’m quiet, considering his question. “For the first time in a while, I feel like that’s a possibility.”