“Strip down to your underwear,” he says, giving me his back as he walks to the wooden unit. Panic whittles through me at the thought of what’s coming. I guess they’re not just checking for concealed weapons but for drugs too, and there’s no way in hell that man is putting his fingers inside my ass or my pussy. I will fucking decimate him if he tries to touch me there.
Forcing myself to remain calm, I sit down on the bench and remove my boots and clothing while his eyes watch my every move. When I’m down to my underwear, I stand and walk into the center of the room. “Same stance,” he instructs, his eyes dropping to my chest.
Using some type of digital scanner, he scans every part of my body. His fingers brush against me an inordinate amount of times, but I don’t flinch even though I’m on edge and ready to take him down if he goes near my lady parts.
“You can get dressed now,” he says, and I don’t need to be told twice, breathing a quiet sigh of relief.
I hurry out of the room a few minutes later, take the elevator to the first floor, and quickly locate my room.
It’s a small utilitarian room with a single cot and bedside table, compact wardrobe and matching dresser, and a small wall-mounted TV.
I grab the quickest shower in history, careful not to wet my hair, and I dress in the black training top and black combat pants left on the bed. I scowl at the fiery symbol on my shirt, wishing I could rip it off.
A quick inspection of the closet and dresser confirms other sets of the same clothes plus some underwear and plain black pajamas. Everything is in the right sizes, and that creeps me out more than anything else so far. The thought of that bastard Sinner rooting through my stuff to determine my clothes and underwear sizes makes me ill, but I don’t dwell on it because I need to keep my head in the game.
The bathroom cabinet has all the essentials I need, and I remove a brush and a hair tie, quickly smoothing my hair into a high ponytail.
I open the envelope and skim through the documents, locating my schedule and the map, as I lace up my black boots. I’m to report to Assembly Area A, which is at the rear of the building, on the lower level. I memorize the way before folding the map and tucking it inside my bra.
I hide one cell under the mattress and one in the bathroom cabinet before heading out, making my way downstairs and walking along successive hallways toward my destination. I pass a few other trainees and staff, but there doesn’t seem to be a huge amount of people milling around.
The sound of a booming voice talking up ahead has me quickening my pace. I’m obviously a little late, and it’s not the best way to make a first impression.
Rounding the corner, I spot the correct door and step through it. A line of about ten people, all similarly attired to me, is facing a tall glass window that wraps around the entire room, offering impressive views of the rear of the property including the vast assault course we will shortly become acquainted with.
“How good of you to join us, Initiate Westbrook,” the man with the booming voice says, slanting a displeased look my way.
He’s in his forties, if I had to guess, of average height and strong build with wide shoulders and big arms. Ink creeps up over his shirt collar, up his neck, and onto one side of his face. His shaved head glistens as the bright overhead lights beat down on us, and the glare on his face almost matches it in intensity.
“Apologies, sir,” I say, offering no explanation.
“Get in line,” he snaps. “And don’t make this a habit.”
Asshole.
“Yes, sir.”
I walk to the end of the line without looking at any of my fellow trainees. I stop beside a tall guy with shorn black hair as the instructor speaks again, explaining the process.
The guy beside me angles his head, risking a quick glance in my direction when the instructor looks away, and I stare into familiar hazel eyes with mounting horror. He shoots me a brief smile before facing frontward when the instructor’s gaze swings this way. I conceal my shock and stare straight ahead, wondering what the actual fuck is going on, because I have no clue why Bryant Eccleston—an Arrows member and Darrow’s number two—is undergoing The Sainthood’s initiation.
CHAPTER 10
Harlow
“FOLLOW ME,” INSTRUCTORCorr says, marching toward the side exit. I’ve barely heard a word he said because I’m in a tailspin trying to figure out why Bryant is here. Bry smirks as we follow the line and head outside.
There’s a distinct chill in the air, but the skies are clear, and the day is bright. We walk down a few flights of stairs, trailing the instructor as he leads us to a small wooden station, manned by the same man who was in the inspection room. “Get your time tracker from Instructor Tanner,” our instructor commands, and we all comply.
Instructor Tanner fits the small round digital device to the pocket of my shirt, pressing in firmly against my chest, his fingers brushing my breast. A loud throat clearing captures our attention, and everyone looks up. My mouth hangs open as I spot the overhead walkway and the four assholes leaning against the side, staring at me.
Saint pins Instructor Tanner with a lethal look, one that conveys possessiveness and a clear threat, before his eyes move to my side. He stares at Bryant with the usual impassive face he wears, so I can’t tell if his presence is a surprise to him or not.
“Listen up,” Instructor Corr says, clapping his hands and reclaiming our attention. “You’ll be split into two groups, but this isn’t a team exercise. The purpose of the general skills test is to ascertain basic levels of fitness and coordination. After that, we’ll assign you to a group for the duration of the week, based on matching skill sets.”
He breaks the line into two even groups, which means I’m going out the same time as Bryant. The instructor is busy issuing commands to the first group, so I risk whispering to Bry. “Why are you here?”
“I’m beginning initiation,” he coolly replies. “Same as you.” He winks, and I narrow my eyes.
