Page 43 of Reckless
“If that’s the case,” she says sweetly, “you could simply let me go. Problem solved.”
“You and I both know that’s not an option.”
“Right.” Her voice is harsh. “Because your new king has you chasing me down.”
A handful of heartbeats pass before I say, “Well, you did kill his father, the king. And played a key role in the Resistance’s uprising. Not to mention that you used Kitt to help do it.”
“And I don’t regret a thing.” She looks me right in the eyes as she says it, not a trace of remorse reflected in her gaze. “Everything I did, everything I fought for, was for Ilya.”
My jaw tightens. “And that includes killing Ilya’s king?”
She shakes her head, looking away from me. “I didn’t go into that Trial planning to kill him when I came out of it. He came afterme.” There’s something scarily similar to a plea in her eyes, not because she’s begging forgiveness for what she did, but because she needs me to understand why she did it. “But that doesn’t mean I hadn’t thought about driving a blade through his black heart a dozen times before.”
Even with the hatred coating each word, this is the most honesty I’ve received from her. I can hear it in the hoarseness of her voice, see it in the hands now trembling. Everything prior to this moment may have been fake, a facade, a fairy tale spun to lure me in. But starting right now, I’ve never seen anything realer.
I sigh, content to let the silence stretch between us before grabbing the small washbasin from the floor. I’m not worried about leaving her alone while I trek downstairs to fill the bin with freezing water, notwith the injuries that have her trying her hardest not to tremble in front of me.
Water sloshes over the rim with each step back up the steep stairs, and after I push open the door with a damp boot, the girl slumped on the bed before me looks different from the one I left there. Her hair seems to bleed into the body beneath, blending with her very being now leeched of all color, save for the crimson staining her trembling hands. She stares unseeingly at the blood coating her fingers, swallowing hard at the sight, shaking with each shallow breath.
Something is very wrong with the Silver Savior.
And I’m not supposed to care.
I’ve seen trauma take on worse forms. Seen it cripple courage, devour dreams, and spit out the shell of a person. Trauma and I are well acquainted.
“Come here.”
The command is softer this time, sympathy seeming to smother the sternness in my voice. Her eyes flick up to mine, unfocused and filled with panic. She blinks, her voice cracking as she begins, “I… I can’t…”
“I don’t need to know,” I cut in quietly. Because I don’t. I don’t need to know what keeps her up at night, what haunts her dreams, what has her trembling like this. Because knowing that involves knowingher. And that’s something I swore I wouldn’t do again.
She is the history I’m desperately trying not to repeat.
And I’ve failed enough at that for one night.
I watch her swallow, watch her slide off the bed to sit beside me on the worn floorboards. She doesn’t waste a moment before dunking her bloody fingers into the freezing water, scrubbing vigorously with numb hands.
My eyes skim over her, using her distraction as a chance to let mygaze linger on the jagged scar down her neck. I don’t bother asking because I already know it was my father’s doing. I can practically feel the exact amount of pressure he used to carve into her skin.
But I say nothing of it, knowing that the wound likely runs far deeper than its physical form. The thought reminds me of just how careful I still am of her feelings. It’s maddening.
She’s so entranced with the task of ridding herself of her own blood that I have to grab her wrists and reel her back to reality. “Unless you’re hoping to scrub your skin off, I think that’s enough.”
With a slow nod, she’s pulling her dripping hands from mine to wipe them on a crumpled shirt I tug from a borrowed Imperial’s pack. Rolls of dingy bandages tumble to the floor when I shake them from the bag, frowning while fiddling to unravel one.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks, voice hoarse.
I don’t look up at her. “Well, I can’t have you bleeding out on me, now, can I? It’s selfish really. I don’t want to have to carry you all the way home.”
She huffs halfheartedly at that. “He has big plans for me, then? Plans I need to be alive for?”
I’m quiet for a long while, taking my time cleaning the wound with a sopping bandage. The only sounds shared between us are the hushed hisses of pain and the steady drip of water.
When I finally deign to respond, it’s with the answer to a question she hadn’t asked. “I didn’t know.”
Her gaze struggles to meet mine. “Didn’t know what?”
“Your father. I didn’t know. Not then, and certainly not until now.”
