The Girl Who Dared to Think by Bella Forrest (best novels of all time TXT) 📗

He hadn’t disappeared after all—but had come to a stop by a junction of pipes and was now hunched over one, rooting around like a farmer planting seeds and not a man being pursued by the Knights. I coughed as I unsheathed my stun baton, releasing a menacing hum of electricity.

“So,” I said, drawing out the syllable, “are you going to introduce yourself, or…?”

He spun around, his dark blond hair mussed and touching the sides of his face. His eyes found mine immediately, his muscles surging and tensing beneath his clothes. He didn’t exactly look like a villain to me. Then again, I was a three, so maybe villains were just my type.

I tapped the tip of my baton against some of the piping, letting a thin tendril of power curl lazily up from it.

“Awkward silence works too, I suppose,” I said, taking a step forward.

I failed to anticipate his speed, though, and he moved close, grabbing my wrist and attempting to break my hold on my baton. Alarmed, I reacted instinctually, striking a low blow with my foot in an attempt to get him to move back or upset his balance. His foot came up to block my blow, and I froze as he kicked it away.

I launched another kick, which he blocked as well, his hand still firmly wrapped around my wrist. We stared at each other, tension radiating from both of us.

“How do you know to do that?” I asked after a pause, looking at his feet.

He smiled, a flash of white straight teeth. “You’re pretty, for a Shield,” he said, referring to the Knights by their nickname.

I glared at him then thrust out my arm, my fist clenched, intent on knocking the smug look off of his face. He blocked the blow with his forearm, and then slid his arm around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I flushed and looked up at him, extremely uncomfortable at his proximity and the way his brown eyes lit up as he looked down at me, that cocky smile still clinging to his lips.

“Let go of me,” I said, forcing air back into my lungs as I tried to fight my way out of his arms.

Grey smiled a slow, arrogant grin. “Let go of a pretty girl in the middle of a dance? My mother raised me better than that.”

“Apparently not, Farmless,” I spat, and was immediately mortified by my own words. They sounded harsh and cruel—spoken out of a nervousness that stemmed from the feeling of being trapped.

Grey’s jaw twitched and he abruptly released me, keeping cool despite the simmering anger burning behind his brown eyes. He sucked in a deep breath as he took a slow step back, creating a little bit of room between us.

“Liana!” I heard Gerome’s voice from the tunnels behind me, clearly looking for me, but I ignored it, keeping my eyes on the oddly untroubled fugitive in front of me.

“Citizen Grey Farmless, designation 49xF-91—to be precise,” Grey informed me, his tone exasperated and curt. “May I ask why, exactly, you feel the need to brandish a weapon at me, Squire?”

I gave him a confused look and he gestured to the glowing display on his wrist. “I already know your number,” I informed him, baffled by his odd behavior. “It’s a one, Citizen Farmless. I’ve been given full authority to take you into custody.”

I slapped my baton against the ground, forcing a shower of sparks, in an attempt to re-establish control of the situation. He seemed to be having a hard time getting it through his head. I wondered whether maybe that was because he was off the medicine handed out by the Medica for all twos and ones. The medicine I would soon be taking, my mind reminded me, and I pushed the thought away. Now wasn’t the time.

Grey lifted his arm, turning it to display his number.

“Not a one, Knight. Sorry to disappoint.”

I stared. The end of the one seemed to have gotten lazy, curled around, cooled to a soft blue.

“A six?” I said, dumbfounded.

“Nine, actually,” he replied with a suffering sigh, “but who’s counting?” He looked pointedly at the three on my wrist, one sandy-brown eyebrow slowly lifting.

“You were a one,” I insisted, trying to force the flush from my cheeks.

“Well I’m not now,” he replied. “Funny how the world works.”

“I can’t just let you go,” I said. “There’s no way that—”

“Squire Castell.”

I turned and saw Gerome approaching, his own baton held loosely in one hand. He moved straight toward the young man, who took a step back and lifted his arm again.

“I’m a nine!” he announced. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Gerome paused, then turned toward me. His slate-gray eyes seemed to stab clean through me.

“This is the same man, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, somewhat unsure of how that was possible.

I shuffled uncomfortably, glaring at the man’s number. It couldn’t be right, could it? But to think otherwise would be to assume that Scipio was wrong, and if I wanted to start claiming that, I might as well arrest myself and spend the night in a cell.

Gerome looked at me, then at the man, his hard eyes seeming uncertain. “Very well, then,” he murmured after a pause. “We cannot arrest those in Scipio’s grace. The Citadel apologizes for any inconvenience you have suffered, Citizen.”

Grey gave him a shrug, donning an expression of mock sincerity. “That’s no problem,” he replied. “I just want to help the Tower run as smoothly as possible.”

I stared at him. His words were dripping with sarcasm, his eyes glinting with amusement. How the hell was he still a nine? It didn’t make any sense.

“You were a one!” I erupted, gesturing at him. “You fled from Knights of Scipio’s order!”

Gerome’s baleful gaze fell on me this time, and I shrunk under it. “You know as well as anyone that Scipio marks criminals with a one, to make their capture easy and assured. If he is not a one, then he has committed no crime.”

“But—”

“We’re