“So, what’s our punishment?” Oliver asked, cutting straight to the point.
“Target practice,” Moira replied, her tone dripping with superiority. “Come along, recruits. Theon and Cyrus will be helping me out today. The rest of you—spectators.”
The ginger and his wiry friend’s smiles deepened, and my stomach dropped.
“Wonderful,” Oliver muttered.
This wasn’t a coincidence. She must’ve known about our last interaction—or even instigated it. The urge to rake my nails across her golden skin overwhelmed me.
We followed behind our squad, walking next to the twins. The concerned creases in their lips never changed.
“What’s target practice, Ichi?” I asked.
She gave me a side glance, shaking her head with a heavy sigh. The weight of her exhale pressed on her drooping shoulders. Her sister wouldn’t even look at us, like she was ashamed.
“Target practice is quite literal,” Ichi said softly. “You’re the target, and we are instructed to practice on you. Sometimes with weapons, other times with powers. Moira decides the conditions.”Her expression turned distant. “She started it a few years ago, after a couple recruits disobeyed her. Ever since then, anyone who displeases her becomes an example, and we’re her tools.”
My jaw tightened. Sounded like we’d be her example every day from here on out. “And the general allows this?”
Ni finally shifted, her face saying everything.
Ichi sighed. “She’s dating the general. And this is Hell?—”
“Suffer or die,” I finished, the bitter truth sliding off my tongue.
She nodded.
“Are we moving targets or…” I trailed off at the twins’ matching expressions. “So, no. We’re just supposed to stand?—”
“In a damned public bathroom and let carrot-top and his weasel friend show us how glued their lips are to Moira’s bleached ass,” Oliver finished for me, stopping at the threshold of the showers.
“Move, recruits. We have other things to do today.”
To hell with what she had to do.
“Move! Or I’ll let all of them punish you.”
Oliver, having other ideas, pulled me into the open area and stopped at the wall Moira pointed at.
Theon and Cyrus swaggered into place, their eyes glinting with smug satisfaction.
Moira gestured to us. “Have at it, Theon. And if they even flinch, you can restrain them, Cyrus.”
The beefy carrot-top—Theon, I assumed—whipped up his hands. Two powerful streams of water shot out, slamming into our chests and sending us back into the wall.
My head cracked against the tile. I bit my lip, holding back a cry of pain.
“Hit their faces,” Cyrus suggested.
It took everything I had in me—plus squeezing Oliver’s hand in a death grip—not to move an inch. After this morning, I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle another restraining without either having a panic attack or revealing my Infernus.
I weathered the blast of frigid water, clenching my teeth against the bruising pressure. The third and fourth blasts barreled into my stomach harder than the last two.
Our squad jeered and belittled us, enjoying our torment. Each laugh, each curse, seared through my veins. But that paled in comparison to the unholy rage pounding in my chest from Oliver’s broken, hollow expression. I wanted to latch onto my Glory and burn the arena to the ground—to watch their sneering smiles blister and turn to specks of useless ash.
Even now, my Infernus begged to escape, enticing me with its music. It wanted to trail across the tile, slide up the ginger’s legs, and crawl down his throat. It wanted to watch Theon suffocate on his burning flesh. It wanted?—
I squeezed my eyes shut, ignoring the haunting melody. But the more I did, the louder it became. The taunting whispers turned to an addictive noise, forcing me to listen. Theon blasted us with a harder stream, and itches scattered across my skin.
