Powerless (The Powerless Trilogy)

She’s too stubborn to die, and I’m too stubborn to let her. I brush a hand over her forehead, her fevered skin hot to the touch, her breaths coming in shallow pants. She’s dehydrated, delusional, dying of hunger…

Just dying.

My eyes flick back to the bloody gash slicing under her rib, inflamed and no doubt infected. I pull out the remains of my crumpled shirt and begin dabbing at the wound, trying to sop up some of the blood so I can see exactly what I’m dealing with. The skin is torn, jagged, and likely looks much worse when it’s not concealed by shadows.

But what’s even more concerning, is that I have no idea how to help her. I have no supplies and no healing ability around me to draw from, making me utterly useless.

I’m holding her life in my useless, unequipped hands.

I stand to my feet, searching for my canteens in the dim light.

She needs water.

That’s what she came here for after all, why she risked walking straight into someone’s camp. She needed water. Needed it to drink, to wash out her wound. But that won’t save her.

I can’t save her.

I sigh in frustration, threatening to lose my temper as I run my hands through my hair, still searching for those damn canteens. But my mind won’t stop replaying the scene, won’t stop reeling over what just happened.

I knew something was wrong when I saw her arm trembling. Saw it shake with the strain of keeping the bow aimed at me, ready to make good on her threat to shoot. Then I saw her knees shake, saw the fire extinguish from her burning blue eyes. But above all, she wasn’t playing with me, wasn’t teasing me or twisting her mouth into that sly smile of hers that I enjoy so much. And that’s what worried me the most.

And now I’m suddenly furious with her.

She wanted me to leave. She was going to try and deal with this alone. She would have died alone. She’s so damn stubborn that she would choose to fight me until she collapsed rather than let me see her injured.

The image of her crumpling to the ground sends a chill through me, icing over my burning rage. You would think I’d be numb to witnessing hurt by now, watching Death claim another victim. But when she crumpled, something inside of me cracked. The sight of her so weak, so vulnerable, so unlike herself, was enough to shatter a piece of the soul I’d forgotten I had.

My feet stumble over something in the darkness.

Finally.

I bend down to snatch up the canteen only for my fingers to fold around a small, tin box. I step closer to the firelight, casting a glance over my shoulder at the wheezing Paedyn.

I don’t have time for this.

I’m about to chuck the box as far as I can out of fury and frustration when the symbol painted onto the lid catches in the light, catching my attention. A faded, green diamond stains the top, and I don’t hesitate before ripping open the lid to reveal a small vile of inky liquid.

I stare at it. Stare at the miracle in the form of a healing salve crafted by the Healers themselves, strong enough to mend even the most menacing wounds.

And then I’m laughing dryly, unable to stop. The absurdity, the sheer impossibility of this all has me hysterical. Braxton must have picked it up in the forest somewhere and dropped it during our fight.

Paedyn’s salvation has been hiding in the shadows this whole time.

“Thank the Plague,” I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief as my foot finally meets one of my canteens on the ground.

I’m on my knees beside her in a matter of moments, her chest barely rising with shallow breaths. I yank the salve from the box, revealing a needle and thick thread for stitching wounds lying beneath. I find myself laughing again.

Unbelievable. Bloody unbelievable.

I carefully pour some of the dark liquid onto a clean corner of my remaining shirt. This is going to sting, so it’s convenient that she’s unconscious when I press the cloth against her wound, letting the salve seep into the gash. Slowly, I make my way across the cut, watching as the steady flow of blood already begins to slow. I dab the fabric against a particularly deep part of the gash and her eyes fly open before her hand flies towards my face.

Damn.

Her slap is shockingly hard for someone who was just dangerously close to meeting Death. My head is still turned to the side from the shock and impact of her hit, but a slow smile pulls up my lips.

“Ouch.” I finally look at her, finding wild blue eyes staring up at me. She’s panting, clearly confused. “Is that how you thank me for saving your life?” I scan her face, relieved to already see some color blooming on her cheeks, see her eyes gleaming again with that familiar fire.

“I’m the one who should be saying ouch. What the hell is that? It stings.” She’s breathless and shaking all over. Her eyes dart from her clean wound to the salve still clutched in my hand. And then she’s trying to sit up. It’s a good effort, despite her grunting in pain.

“Easy, darling.” I place a hand on her uninjured side, fitting right into the curve of her waist as I slowly press her back down to the forest floor. “You can slap me all you want once you’re healed, but until then, try to keep your hands to yourself.”

“How am I alive?” Her voice is so quiet that her question is nearly drowned out by the chirping crickets surrounding us. Her eyes are trained on the sky, not daring to look at me.

“We have Braxton to thank for that.” I grab the water canteen and push it to her lips. “Drink. You’re dehydrated. Though you are quite fun when you’re delusional.” She glares at me as I tip the canteen back, letting her gulp down the water greedily. She eyes me expectantly, and I sigh, elaborating, “Braxton paid me a little visit earlier, and he must have dropped the salve he’d found during our fight.” I sigh. “And I doubt he’s too happy about that, seeing that he could have used it for himself.”

She pushes my hand away, refusing to drink any more until she gets some answers.

Stubborn, little thing.

“So you didn’t—” Her eyes glance between my bandaged injury to my face, trying to read me.

“No, I didn’t kill him,” I say dully, answering the question in her gaze. She gives me a strange look, one I’ve only seen her offer me a few times before. I clear my throat and look away, leaning back on my palms as she continues to study me. “Killing isn’t a hobby of mine, I’ll have you know.”

I felt like I needed to say it. Felt like I needed to admit that to her, to myself. What I do—what I’ve done—has had a purpose, a reason. I’m still a monster, just not the kind that loves the hateful things they do.

There’s that look again. It’s like she’s seeing straight through my many masks, tearing down my walls, stripping me bear with nothing but her gaze. I hate it—I love it. I feel free—I feel trapped. The thought that a single pair of blue eyes can leave me so vulnerable, so exposed, is alarming.

So, I do what it is I do best—deflect.

I clear my throat before leaning forward and grabbing my ragged shirt. After dumping the rest of the salve onto the fabric, I gently press it to her wound. She hisses and her eyes fly to mine, full of a fire that makes me chuckle. “Oh, this isn’t even the worst part, darling. I still have to stitch you up.”

She steadies her shaky breaths, long lashes fluttering shut as she says, “Why are you doing this?”

A very valid question, though I don’t intend on answering it until I get some answers of my own. I grab the brutally blunt needle and begin the painstaking process of threading it through with the thick medical string. “Why don’t I ask the questions?” My stare is leveled at her, unyielding and unfeeling. But it’s simply another mask, seeing that I’m currently simmering with rage.

“Which one of them did this to you?” Her eyes fly open, looking more confused and unsure of herself than I’ve ever seen before. But she recovers quickly, huffing out a shaky laugh.

She turns her head to the side to look at me from where she lays on a bed of moss, dirt, and leaves. “It doesn’t matter.” And that is the only answer she deems to give me before rolling her head back towards the starry sky hanging above us, avoiding my gaze.

My fingers find her chin and then I’m tugging her face back in my direction so I can look her in the eyes as I say, “I’m going to ask again. Who did this to you?”

My hand is still gripping her chin, her strong jaw, as she holds my gaze and says, “Why do you care?” Then she’s laughing bitterly, the sound vibrating under my fingers.

“Because I don’t tolerate my toys being played with.”

She is going to hate that.

“Your what—?” She stops, her eyes smoldering, her temper rising. “Is that what you think I am? Some toy you can play with?”

“Yes. And clearly quite a fragile one at that.”

Plagues, if I wasn’t already going to hell, I am now.

She sputters. Actually sputters. I’ve never seen her at such a loss for words before, and I must say, it’s very entertaining. “What the hell is wrong with you? Oh, so you think I’m fragile? I’ll show you just how fragile I—”

“There,” I say calmly, cutting her off mid-threat. “The first stitch is always the worst, especially with how blunt this needle is.”

She blinks, snapping her mouth shut when she looks down to see the needle I’ve pushed through the gash without her even realizing, too angry to feel the pain. Which was exactly what I was hoping for.

“You…you are—”

She’s sputtering again, so I kindly finish for her. “Intelligent? Irresistible?”

“Calculating, cocky, and a completely arrogant bastard,” she pants. “That is what I was going to say.”

A smile tugs at my lips. “Good to see you’re feeling well enough to insult me.” I grab the needle again and pinch the skin around her wound closer together, preparing to make another stitch by the light of the fire.

“You distracted me,” she murmurs, as though she’s still taking in the information. Then she huffs out a laugh as she adds, “You distracted me by being an ass, but it worked nonetheless.”

I look up at her briefly before saying, “Yes, I was an ass. And I need you to know that I didn’t mean what I said.” I push the needle through her skin as I speak, using my words as another distraction, though she still lets out a small hiss of pain. “You’re no toy, let alone a delicate one.”

She watches me work, and I will myself not to melt under her burning gaze. “Tell me about home. About Loot,” I say, trying to take her mind off the needle piercing her skin.

“Loot wasn’t exactly a home to me.” She’s quiet, and I catch her chewing the inside of her cheek before she continues. “I had a home once. It was just me and my father, but…but we were happy.” She winces when I make another stitch, but her next words are as blunt as the needle. “And then he died, and my home became Adena. We made a living in Loot together. She made Loot worth living in.”

“How long have you lived on the streets?”

“Five years. I was thirteen when my father died, and ever since then, I’ve lived in a pile of garbage Adena generously called the Fort.” She laughs bitterly at that. “From ages thirteen to fifteen, the two of us were barely surviving. But then we grew up. We figured things out and fell into a routine that kept us fed and clothed. We each had our own skills that kept us alive.”

I let her words, her story, sink in. I wonder silently what had happened to her father, or her mother for that matter. “So, your father taught you to fight, then?” I ask curiously.

“Ever since I was a child. He knew my ability wasn’t one I could use physically, so he made sure I was never truly defenseless.” Her voice is shaky as I thread the needle through the deepest part of the wound. Her hand shoots up and grips my forearm, nails biting into my skin as she bites her tongue to keep from crying out in pain.

“And the dagger you like to wear on your thigh so much,” I clear my throat, “was that your fathers?”

“Yes, it is—it was.” Her laugh is strained. “I suppose you have him to thank for my violent tendencies.”

I glace up and grin before saying warily, “And your mother…? Do I have her to thank for any of your wonderful qualities?”

“Dead.” Her tone is flat. “She died of sickness shortly after I was born. I never knew her.” I’m reminded of Kitt and how his mother died in a similar manner, a tragedy the two of them share.

Her grip on my arm only tightens as I keep pushing the needle through her skin, slowly making my way to the end of the gash. Her eyes are squeezed shut against the pain, refusing to cry or even cry out.

So stubborn. So strong.

“Just a little more, Pae,” I breathe. She shudders and I don’t miss the movement. Whether because of the pain or because I finally said her name, I’m not sure. I’m reminded of when she hit the ground. When I was feral, frantic, and I suddenly aware that I hadn’t said her name to her since we met.

And in that moment, I realized that I’d wanted to say it—wanted her to hear it from my lips. Realized that if she died, I would never again get to look into those blue eyes and utter those two syllables that have been a constant in my mind.

So I said her name, again and again. I finally let myself do it. Let that last piece of attachment to her lock into place. Just saying her name felt intimate, personal, somehow.

And now I forever want her name on my lips and rolling off my tongue until I’m drunk on the taste and sound of it.

What the hell is wrong with me.

Her eyes find mine, sparkling like a body of water in the firelight. “Why are you doing this?”

Her gaze tells me that there’s no escaping the question this time, though I’m not even sure I have an answer for her or myself. All I know is that I have this urge to protect her, be with her, tease her, touch her.

It’s terrifying.

“What’s the fun in winning by default?” I say instead. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I took your leather and left you to die?”

She lifts her head off the ground, eyes searching mine as she scoffs, “So you’re telling me, that you did all of this to be a gentlemanly?”

“Why does that come as such a surprise to you?”

“Maybe because you have to be a gentleman to be gentlemanly.”

“And who says I’m not?”

“I’d like to find someone who says you are.”

I smile at her, taking in every detail of her face beneath mine. I open my mouth to say something witty and wildly inappropriate when a twig snaps to my left. A Sight watches us with glazed eyes, documenting the scene before him. And I’m embarrassed that I have no idea how long he has been standing there, not with how distracted I was with the girl before me.

I can only imagine what Father will make of this—of us. Of me helping, saving, enjoying being with the girl from the slums.

Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disappointed him, and it certainly won’t be the last.

The Sight blinks, clearing his blurry eyes before disappearing into the night. I turn back towards Paedyn, her attention still fixed on the spot where the man once was. Then I look down at her exposed stomach, and the wound now completely stitched there.

I begin wrapping the remains of her large shirt over the wound and around her waist. Paedyn’s eyes follow my movements, tracking my hands and tracing my face.

“You never did answer my question,” I say far more casually than I currently feel.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, Azer.”

“I asked who the hell did this to you.”

She laughs dismissively, turning her head from mine. “Oh, that question. It doesn’t matter.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then tell me.”

She shoots me an annoyed look before she sighs, giving in. “Ace. Happy now? He used his illusions to draw me in.” She’s suddenly pale again. “He made me see…things.”

I’ve never seen her look so haunted, and I’m shocked by how much I hate it. “Did you kill him?”

“No,” she says softly. “No, I didn’t kill him.”

We fall silent, and I run my hand over her crude bandage, making sure it’s secure as she stares at me. Then I hand her the water canteen before forcing her to choke down some burnt rabbit.

I busy myself around the small camp, and when I look back at Paedyn from where I stoke the flames of the dying fire, her lids are drooping, eyelashes fluttering with the promise of sleep. Then I catch her shiver slightly in the brisk, night breeze.

Well that just won’t do.

I kneel beside her, scooping her into my arms before pulling her off the ground and carrying her closer to the fire. She grunts groggily against my chest before I lay her down on the packed dirt, watching her chest rise and fall with steady breaths, so unlike the ragged, shallow ones she choked on earlier.

And then I sit there. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away as she drifts to sleep beside the fire, alive and breathing deeply. She shakes again, making me wish I had a blanket to offer her, had something to offer her. The truth of that thought hits me like a blow to the gut.

I have nothing to offer her.

I am wrong, so wrong for her. She is too brave, too bold, too bloody good for me. Maybe I could be a better man. Maybe I could be more like Kitt with his heart on his sleeve and happiness on display. Maybe the future Enforcer could break down a few walls, become a man who is more than the masks he wears around his people.

But ever since she discovered I was the prince and declared us enemies, I’ve played along, not wanting to be outdone. And it’s fun. It’s a distraction for the both of us, the toying and teasing with one another.

But now?

If I am to be her enemy, I want it to be because she loathes herself for wanting me.