Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy Book 2)

What am I walking her into?

Heavy doors swing open at the top of the stairs. Imperials greet me with a bow.

Duty. That is what I’m walking her into.

Because this is no choice of mine.

I could have ripped out that Imperial’s throat for laying a hand on her, so what is it I’ll do if Kitt orders me to do something much worse?

I can hardly stand the way she looks at me, hatred burning in that gaze I love. But this is pretend—the only time I’ve ever pretended with her.

Every touch, every dance, every kiss disguised as distraction was anything but. Because before I loved her, I longed for her. She was a want I wasn’t worthy of. And I’m afraid I’ll never get the chance to deserve her.

Because now that I have her, I’m giving her away.

We step through the towering doors and into the ornate hallway beyond. She looks around, taking it all in as if doubting there will be another chance to. I hate it, hate that she’s already accepted a fate of her deciding.

The emerald carpet beneath our dirty boots looks out of place, as does my lack of shirt and Pae’s filthy one. My first mission as the Enforcer certainly hasn’t failed to make me look bad. But I hold my head high, feeling the familiar burn of eyes searching for imperfections. I roll my shoulders, straighten my spine, slip an unbothered mask over my features.

Because power is portrayal. And respect is demanded.

We continue down the hall, a fleet of Imperials following behind. The gilded doors grow closer, beckoning us to discover what waits on the other side. Who waits on the other side.

I don’t know what version of him awaits us beyond these doors. Perhaps the brother I know, or the king I now serve. He’s unpredictable, unprepared to rule so young. Or rather, unprepared to lose a father.

And Kitt without his compassion is a man I don’t recognize.

I glance over at Paedyn’s blank expression. But it’s her fidgeting fingers that give her anxiety away, relentlessly spinning that ring on her thumb.

For her sake, I pray to whatever will bother listening.

I pray for my piece of paradise.

Her eyes are pinned on me, wide and full of worry.

I don’t dare change my blank expression, not with so many Imperials standing several feet behind her.

But I dare to lift my hand. Dare to raise it up to her nose, her body blocking the movement. Dare to flick the tip of it one last time, hoping she hears my words hidden within the action.

I love you.

And then I push open the heavy doors.

The throne room is packed with familiar faces. Every person of importance seems to occupy the large room, some stepping from behind marble pillars to stare at us dirtying the shiny floor with each step.

Noble men and women, advisers of all ages, startle at the sight of us. Not because they didn’t know we were coming, but because we likely look as though we journeyed through hell to get here.

I’m aware of the many makeshift bandages wrapped around my body, each of them stained with blood. I remember promising Father I wouldn’t walk into his throne room again without a shirt, and yet, here I am, half-naked before the entire court.

Though Paeydn doesn’t look much better. Blood drips down her leg from the deliberately careless Imperial I plan to make pay later. Her shirt hangs from her shoulder, though she’s ensured her tank strap covers the scar my father gifted her. The mere thought of it makes my blood boil—not that anyone would know, with the blank mask fastened over my features.

Dozens of eyes flick over my figure before slowly finding hers. Disgust burns in each gaze that crawls over her, taking in the scar down her neck, the split lip above, and the short hair that undeniably belongs to the once Silver Savior.

I yank her forward by the arm.

Pretend.

I am cold and callous and could not care less about the prisoner staggering behind me.

Pretend.

The chains binding her wrists clank with each uneven step she takes toward the throne. People part to make way, and I meet every gaze that strays to mine. This crowd is too proud and proper to shout their loathing like those we passed in the streets, but the various looks on their faces speak volumes.

Despite holding her head high, Paedyn’s feet begin to drag with each step closer to his throne. The throne our new king now occupies.

She’s scared.

The thought sends anger shooting through me, though it doesn’t reach my face. Try as she might to deny it, I know this version of Kitt scares her. This version that she likely blames herself for.

I force her to her knees when we reach the bottom of the dais.

Pretend.

Shackles smack the marble floor; a sound associated with a traitor. She lifts her head slowly, daring to meet his gaze.

But his eyes are pinned on me, swiftly skimming over my body. I do the same, taking in the crown atop his head and throne beneath the ass I used to whoop in the training yard. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the sight of him sitting in father’s shadow.

“Welcome back, Enforcer.”

His smile is small, and I’m not sure whether the formalities are due to the court being present, or if this is to be the extent of our relationship for the rest of this shared life.

“I was beginning to worry,” he says softly. “You were expected back several days ago.”

It doesn’t sound like a slight, but it stings, nonetheless. At least I always knew when father was undermining my abilities. “As you can see by the looks of us”—I gesture to my body and Paedyn’s below—“we ran into some unforeseen circumstances.”

Kitt nods. “I see. You made it home, regardless.”

“Of course I did.” The words fall harsher than they should have. “Your Majesty,” I add quickly.

“And your men?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

I fold my hands behind my bare back. “Unforeseen circumstances.”

“Ah.” Kitt drums his fingers on the large arm of the throne, looking uncomfortable in the seat. “And her?” he asks suddenly, nodding toward a kneeling Paedyn. Leaning forward, he glides his gaze over my face. “Any other unforeseen circumstances I should know of?”