Reckless (The Powerless Trilogy Book 2)

There’s a knock at my door.

There’s always a knock at my door. Always a servant, or Imperial, or someone else banging on the wood and begging for my attention.

Life of a king, I suppose.

I run a hand down my tired face, then down my crumpled shirt before remembering my inky fingers.

I don’t look like a king.

I look like a boy who’s trying to fill the shoes of a man, sitting in a chair that’s swallowing me whole. Living in a kingdom full of people I’m too afraid to confront.

And yet, through it all, I pretend. Pretend to know how to live my life as a king.

“Come in.”

The command is met with creaky hinges followed by soft steps on a worn rug. My eyes flick up from the papers littering every inch of the desk. The man slowly shuts the door, every movement calm and deliberate.

Not a servant. Not an Imperial. Not someone begging for my attention. In fact, I can’t picture him doing anything of the sort.

“Shit, is it noon already?” I shake my head, attempting to clear the desk of its inky carnage.

“Well, it is hard to keep track of time with those curtains always closed,” he says smoothly, nodding to the draped window.

“You know why I keep them closed,” I sigh, gesturing for him to take a seat. “I don’t need any more servants gawking up at my window from the courtyard. There are enough rumors going around as it is.”

“For good reason,” he says gently, in that way that makes it difficult to tell whether he’s scolding me or not.

He has such a way with words. Confident enough to speak softly because he knows that everyone will lean in to listen. Each word is deliberate, delicate in the most demanding way.

“You have yet to address your people, Kitt.” His pale blue eyes cut through mine, searching far beyond my gaze. “If you don’t give them something to talk about, they will concoct their own version of the story.”

“Yes, thank you for the wise counsel,” I mutter, having heard it at every one of our meetings.

His gaze softens as he sits back, examining me from across the desk. “I’m only here to help, Kitt. Offer you my guidance.”

“Right. Of course,” I say with a nod. “And Plague knows I need it.”

He smiles, and it’s comforting. “Plague knows this isn’t easy for you, either.”

“Yes, well.” I sigh. “You have advised me through much of this, and for that, I am thankful.”

“And I will continue to do so.” He shifts in his seat to lean over the desk. “Which is why I hope you will go through with my latest suggestion.”

I stiffen. His latest suggestion was absurd at best. An absurdity that I’m foolish enough to consider. But before I can voice this or something else equally unwise, he’s pulled a small box from his pocket and set it on the worn wood between us.

I blink at what I know is trapped inside the velvet case. My heart stutters beneath my ribs, my mouth following as it attempts to form his name in protest. “C-Calum—”

“It’s the best way,” he cuts in, combing fingers through the blond hair atop his head. “I know that it’s not exactly the most appealing idea—”

“Not exactly?” I scoff, laughing at the insanity of it all. “Do you even understand what you’re asking me to do?”

His sigh is heavy, as though he, too, wears the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders. And, in a way, he does. “You’re the king. The life you live is no longer yours alone. This is a sacrifice that must be made for the good of the kingdom.” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between us. “This is how you help the people you still haven’t confronted.”

I look away, shaking my head at the ink staining every surface. “I will. I just…” Emotion traps the words in my throat, choking them until I’m finally able to spit the syllables out. “I just hurt. I’m not the prince they knew.”

“No, you’re not,” Calum says softly. “Because now you are their king.” With a hesitant hand, he slides the box farther across the desk, until I can no longer ignore it. “Which means you sacrifice who you were for who you need to be.” His eyes bore into mine, reading more than just the emotion on my face. “And who you need to be it with.”

I stare at the box, only looking up at him when he murmurs, “What was it your father would always say to the people? Something about what it is that makes a great king?”

Managing a sad smile, I supply, “Ah, yes. The three B’s.”

Calum nods, humming at the memory. “That’s what it was. I remember how he used to recite them when informing the kingdom of a new law or decision he had made.”

“It was one of his many mottos,” I reminisce. “He made me write it dozens of times during our tutoring sessions. I wouldn’t be surprised if I mumble it in my sleep.” Calum chuckles as I recite the phrase dully. “ ‘To be a great king, you must first be brave, benevolent, and brutal. Only then can you rule a great kingdom.’ ”

Nodding, Calum leans back in his chair. “He’s not wrong. It’s a good motto to measure yourself by.” He reaches for the box then, tapping a long finger against the velvet. “And doing this would take all three of those qualities he hoped to find in you. Bravery.” A tap on the box. “Benevolence.” Another. “And even brutality, depending on how you look at it.”

He’s right. Plagues, he’s always right.

Swallowing, I pick up the box, fitting it into the palm of my hand. “The three B’s, huh?”

He smiles at me. “The three B’s.”