He cuts me off with his booming voice, making me flinch into myself. “Cadet Maves, it’s no one’s responsibility but your own to find your place here in the Under. Now fuck off to your spot in the back and stay there. I don’t want to see you out of line again, got it?” A few chuckles sound from my peers, making my jaw flex.
“Yes, sir,” I choke out before turning and heading to the back of the group. In the sea of black uniforms, a flicker of blond catches my attention. Cameron slowly glances at me, he’s standing in the rear of the group. Our eyes meet briefly, then he starkly looks away. I can’t be mad he didn’t tell me one of the hundreds of things we’re supposed to know. It’s not like he’s in his right mind after all.
He reluctantly returns his gaze to me. I hold his intense stare for as long as I can, waiting for him to look away first. Of course, he doesn’t. There’s a storm of secrets and dreary thoughts behind those eyes, and it makes my heart light on fire. I wish he wasn’t so handsome, literate, and mysterious. It’d be easier to fear him if I didn’t find many of the traits I admire most within him.
I stop at his side and face forward like everyone else.
“Have I told you how much I loathe your lack of awareness?” Cameron whispers.
Asshole.I take it back. There’s nothing I admire about him.
Staring straight ahead, I whisper back, “And have I told you that your opinion is delusional at best? I saw that mark on your neck at breakfast, you’re likely as lucid as a drunken pig.” It’s a jab I didn’t need to throw in, but I can’t help the satisfaction in the way my remark draws his chin to tilt my way.
His gaze sears into the side of my face.
“You sure you want to try to piss me off? I’mMori, remember? The guy who kills all his partners.” His tone has dropped.
I wouldn’t mind dancing with death.
“Mori, as in to die. You’ll kill yourself before you do me.” My voice is light but sharp.
He actually chuckles, and the sound is so lovely as it reverberates through me. The cadets standing in front of us shift uncomfortably. “Mori, as in to conquer,love.” His voice is cold and smooth all at once, holding the weight of his promise to kill me, but with a trace of endearment.
A flash of heat warms my center. I snap my eyes to his, but words die on my tongue as my attention is drawn to the stream of blood running down his nose and dripping off his chin. The blood is so dark it almost looks black.
Alarm races through me, and he must see the panic in my face because his body twitches before he blinks down and quickly wipes his nose with his sleeve.
“Cameron,” I whisper urgently.
“It’s nothing.” He looks forward and dismisses me. I hesitate to look away, the smear of blood under his nose makes my chest twist. He’s not okay.
I hate that I yearn to fix broken things. Things that aren’t mine to fix.
It’s not my problem. If he croaks, it will be a good thing for me,I chide myself, but the worry clings to my rib cage.
The drill sergeant speaks over the group. “Trials start in three weeks, Cadets. As you know, most of you are going to die in the first trial. Half of what remains on the second, and the rest of you on the last. I expect only a handful at best as a result, so don’t be too chummy with anyone. I’ve seen some of the most ruthless terminations in these trials by recruits who swore their loyalty to each other, but let that be a testament to those who survive. Even your own squadmates can take you out.”
I swear his eyes bounce between me and Cameron to make his point before skirting over the rest of the heads. Now that I think about it, he looks about Cameron’s age. I wonder if they were in boot camp together. They seem to know one another well with the way they were talking casually earlier. That would explain Cameron’s silence last night when I asked about the drill sergeant.
“We will continue to have routines and exercises up until the day we ship off for the trial grounds,” Adams explains sharply. He drones on about daily matters, but my mind is stuck on his comments surrounding the number of us that will die in the first trial alone. A pit forms in my stomach.
After the assembly, Adams orders us into the weapons room to train for the afternoon. It’s made of bulletproof glass on all four sides. The wall adjacent to the hallway is the thickest, protecting the higher ranked officers observing from behind it. Cameron has his hood pulled up and stands between Adams and a few other officers as they watch the recruits and write stuff down on their notepads.
Bree was right, we’re constantly being assessed for our strengths. They want to see our tricks.
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that Cameron doesn’t need to train with us because he can probably kill every single person inthis room without even blinking. The unsettling thought brings a grimace to my face.
It would be beneficial to see him in action. I could learn his movements and mannerisms. The sparring match with Damian didn’t count because Cameron literally kept his hands in his pockets the entire time. All I gained from that match was how easily he can take someone out without using his hands.
I guess that would be convenient in a hostage situation.I picture him with his hands tied behind his back and still terminating all hostiles. Why is he shirtless in that vision? I pinch my thigh to clear the image from my head.
The worst part is that I don’t think it’s unreasonable to believe that he could do it.
My stomach drops as I watch four massive men take the biggest KA-BARs they can find off the weapons rack and bury the blades into ballistic dummies. They’re the ones I used to see when Reed would put on the showForged in Fire. They have clear, soft fleshlike material on the outside and plaster skeletons on the inside. My frown deepens as fake blood gushes out from the dummies’ necks and stomachs.
It’s not looking much brighter on the shooting range. Everyone goes for the M16s and M15s, emptying their clips at the targets down range. I cringe at the accuracy of most of them. The centers of each wooden board are ringed out and hollowed.
I had no idea how skilled the competition would be down here. I walk to one of the tables in the center of the room with smaller guns laid out for use. My eyes catch on a compact handgun. It’s black and has the letters DF engraved on the bottom corner. The last time I held a gun in my hands was a few months ago, before I was detained. I have to shut my eyes at the electric sensation that buzzes through my bones as I hold the weapon.
