Page 3 of Reckless
Found you.
My stride is unsteady and stiff, sore muscles straining with each step toward the seemingly normal floorboard. I drop to my knees, bitingmy tongue against the pain, and claw at the wood with crimson-stained fingers I struggle to ignore.
The floor seems to be just as stubborn as I am, refusing to budge. I would have admired its resilience if it weren’t a damn piece ofwood.
I don’t have time for this. I need to get out of here.
A frustrated sound tears from my throat before I blink at the board, blurting, “I could have sworn you were the secret compartment. Are you not the nineteenth floorboard from the door?”
I’m staring daggers at the wood before a hysterical laugh slips past my lips, and I tip my head back to shake it at the ceiling. “Plagues, now I’m talking to thefloor,” I mutter, further proof that I’m losing my mind.
Although, it’s not as if I have anyone else to talk to.
It’s been three days since I stumbled back to my childhood home, haunted and half-dead. And yet, both my mind and body are far from healed.
I may have dodged death with each swipe of the king’s sword, but he still managed to kill a part of me that day after the final Trial. His words cut deeper than his blade ever could, slicing me with slivers of truths as he toyed with me, taunted me, told me of my father’s death with a smile tugging at his lips.
“Don’t you want to know who it was that killed your father?”
A shiver snakes down my spine while the king’s cold voice echoes through my skull.
“Let’s just say that your first encounter with a prince wasn’t when you saved Kai in the alley.’?”
If betrayal was a weapon, he bestowed it upon me that day, driving the blunt blade through my broken heart. I blow out a shaky breath, pushing away thoughts of the boy with gray eyes as piercing as the sword I watched him drive through my father’s chest so many years ago.
Staggering to my feet, I shift my weight over the surroundingfloorboards, listening for an indicating creak while mindlessly spinning the silver ring on my thumb. My body aches all over, my very bones feeling far too fragile. The wounds I earned from my fight with the king were hastily tended to, the result of shaky fingers and silent sobs that left my vision blurry and stitches sloppy.
After limping from the Bowl Arena toward Loot Alley, I stumbled into the white shack I called home and the Resistance called headquarters. But I was greeted with emptiness. There were no familiar faces filling the secret room beneath my feet, leaving me with nothing but my pain and confusion.
I was alone—have been alone—left to clean up the mess that is my body, my brain, my bleeding heart.
The wood beneath me groans. I grin.
Once again I’m on the floor, prying up a beam to reveal a shadowy compartment beneath. I shake my head at myself, mumbling, “It’s the nineteenth floorboard from thewindow, not the door, Pae….”
I reach into the darkness, fingers curling around the unfamiliar hilt of a dagger. My heart aches more than my body, wishing to feel the swirling steel handle of my father’s weapon against my palm.
But I chose the shedding of blood over sentiment when I threw my beloved blade into the king’s throat. And my only regret is thathefound it, promising to return it only when he’s stabbed it into my back.
Empty blue eyes blink at me in the reflection of the shiny blade I lift into the light, startling me enough to halt my hateful thoughts. My skin is splattered with slices, covered in cuts. I swallow at the sight of the gash traveling down the side of my neck, skim fingers over the jagged skin. Shaking my head, I slip the dagger into my boot, stowing away my scared reflection with it.
I spot a bow and its quiver of sharp arrows concealed in the compartment, and the shadow of a sad smile crosses my face at thememory of Father teaching me how to shoot, the gnarled tree behind our house my only target.
Slinging the bow and quiver across my back, I sift through the other weapons hidden beneath the floor. After tossing a few sharp throwing knives into my pack, where they joined the rations, blanket, water canteens, and the few crumpled garments I’d hastily tucked inside, I struggle to my feet.
I’ve never felt so delicate, so damaged. The thought has me swelling with anger, has me snatching a knife from my waist and itching to plunge it into the worn, wooden wall before me. Searing pain shoots down my raised arm when the brand above my heart pulls taught with the movement.
A reminder. A representation of what I am. Or rather, what I’m not.
Ofor Ordinary.
I send the knife flying, plunging it into the wood with gritted teeth. The scar stings, gloating of its endless existence on my body.
“… I will leave my mark upon your heart, lest you forget who’s broken it.”
I stalk over to the blade, ready to yank it from the wall, when the board beneath my foot creaks, drawing my attention. Despite knowing that flimsy floorboards are anything but foreign to houses in the slums, my curiosity has me bending to investigate.
If every creaky board were a compartment, our floor would be littered with them—
