The Fortunates (Unfortunate #2) - Skyla Madi Page 0,18

call me names at least come up with something I haven’t already called myself.”

I square my shoulders. “A Fortunate.”

He flinches and, as sad as it sounds, a feeling of triumph flares deep inside me.

I hurt him.

For once.

Kade’s sad expression changes, pinching into frustration. He leans close, so close I can smell him.

Part earth.

Part beer.

All him.

“Were you at the sentencing yesterday morning when they put a bullet in your mother’s head and declared you one of us? I wouldn’t throw that word around as an insult so carelessly, Fortunate.”

Surprising even myself, I slap him hard across the face. It barely tosses his head to the side. I clench my fist as I lower it. Heat sears across my palm, drowning my entire hand in painful tingles. Fear stabs me in the chest and twists painfully.

Never put your hands on a Fortunate. Not unless they ask you to.

It’s a rule I once had to adhere to. It’s a rule that no longer restricts me. Even so, the panic remains.

I inch forward, my hands twitching to rub his red cheek, but I stop myself. I’m done being weak. I’m done letting these people shit all over me.

Kade’s angry stare stays locked with the floor and his jaw quickly clenches under his flesh. Clench. Relax. Clench. Relax. Would he strike me? He’s never hit me before. Then again, I’ve never hit him. How far can he be pushed before he crushes every bone in my body? When do I stop being worth the trouble?

I swallow hard and clear my throat, but it doesn’t smooth out the nervous bumps sitting on my voice box.

“I am not one of you.” My voice quivers with every word and I hate it.

He clears his throat, flicking his black stare to mine. “A Fortunate is who I am. It’s who you will become. You hate me now, but tomorrow you’ll need me. You can’t thrive in this lifestyle without me.”

He is right about a lot of things, but wrong about my feelings for him. I don’t hate him. I could never hate him. Becoming one of them is something I don’t want to do without him. I don’t want to do anything without him, but this isn’t about that. This is about humanity. This is about equality and the sanctity of human life—no matter how bad the person may be.

Guilt swirls in my heart. The biggest regret I carry is assisting Kade in murdering his own father. Denial argues that I had to do what I was told, but my conscience knows no one can truly force you to do something you don’t want to do. I’d confess my wrongdoings right now if I could. The guilt of my actions far outweighs any punishment.

“I will never be like you,” I mutter, sadness overtaking my anger.

It sinks into my stomach, like a stone in water.

“Those are dangerous words you’re speaking,” he warns, lifting his hand and swiping the back of it across his reddening cheek. “Someone hears you talking like that they’ll kill you for it.”

I lean closer, until the warmth of his breath blows across my face.

“Good,” I say, proud my voice stays firm, despite the frenzy of emotions overwhelming me.

He watches me, his chin turned down, and his eyes filled with that Fortunate judgement. The silence is deafening. For six whole seconds we drown in it, neither of us wanting to be the first to break it.

Surprisingly, he’s the first to crack. With a deep, rough huff from the base of his throat, he snatches my elbow and I gasp, my heart leaping into my throat as he pulls me against him. Our bodies crash together. Him, hard and strong, pressed firmly against me, weak and soft. Balanced, like fire and water. In perfect harmony.

At last.

Kade claims my mouth with a bruising kiss, slipping his tongue through my parted lips and hotwiring my entire nervous system. I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze him harder against me.

It’s funny. I’m banged up—bruises, scrapes, and cuts—but I’m the healthiest I’ve felt in a long time, especially as adrenaline and arousal surge through me, numbing every other ache.

“I’ve missed you,” he mutters against my lips, his hands sliding down my waist and over the curve of my backside. I kiss him—harder—until my lungs burn and my head spins—anything to get him to stop talking.

It’s wrong to engage in this behaviour when I’m mad at him and I know it, but I crave to be craved. I need to be