Chapter Eight
CASSIA
After Elias’ training ends, I trail behind the others as we file along the stairwell.
My head still throbs from the simulation, though even with the discomfort, I count the steps taken on our journey to the surface and memorize the route.
This place feels like a fortress built on secrets—each hallway potentially hiding information that could help me understand what I’m up against.
When we reach the landing, I pause as if catching my breath—a reasonable excuse given my dismal performance in physical training yesterday.
From here, I inspect the railings to the lower levels.
It’s difficult to discern how many floors there are due to the lack of lighting, but there’s definitely more than I had thought.
A voice drifts from somewhere below, too distant to make out words. The sound sinks into the concrete, creating a hollow echo that struggles to crawl up the stairwell. I strain to catch more, but Vito clears his throat behind me, indicating I’ve lingered too long.
“Move it, Ashford.”
I nod once before ascending. By the time we reach the main floor, my lungs are heaving and the others have already dispersed to their next training.
The time on the wall taunts me, indicating a mere three minutes before I must be in Kellen’s classroom.
My legs protest as their pace quickens, navigating the maze of corridors with efficiency.
Kellen stands alone in the classroom, rearranging some materials on a central podium, unaware of my presence.
For a moment, I’m frozen in the doorway, staring at his broad back and the precise, deliberate movements of his hands.
There’s something fascinating about watching people when they don’t realize they’re being observed—the small habits and gestures they display reveal more about them than their public personas ever could.
This is the first time I’ve seen any of the leaders without other recruits around. It’s an opportunity to examine, but it’s also dangerous to be caught staring, so I step into the room, ensuring my footfalls are audible enough to announce my presence.
The leader’s gaze flicks up, his eyes finding mine through the narrow slits in our masks. “Ashford,” he acknowledges with a slight nod. “Early.”
“Yes, sir.” Early? There isn’t one minute left before everyone is expected to be here.
The lecture hall is cavernous compared to our small group size—a wide semicircle of tiered seating built into concrete, rising from a central area.
There are no desks, just seats molded into the risers with not even a finger width of space between them.
The ceiling soars at least twenty feet overhead, and soft panels line the walls.
I choose a seat in the front row, directly facing the podium. From this position, I’ll have the clearest view of whatever Kellen presents, and—more importantly—the rest of the group will sit behind me where I won’t be bothered by their scrutiny.
Hyperawareness settles in my hands as I sit. The setting is a bit awkward; while I’m forced to lean in a relaxed position, the atmosphere suggests that more rigid posture is required. But I’ve no idea how to balance the two…Perhaps I should have sat behind the others.
I try setting them on my legs, then shift them to my sides, then back to my legs, unable to find something comfortable that doesn’t scream lazy and inattentive. Each movement feels unnatural.
Most of the men at breakfast had lounged back with an easy confidence, arms crossed or stretched wide, legs spread an annoying distance from each other. Sucking in a cool breath, I mimic the casual sprawl.
Yuck.
It’s exposing—as if my only purpose is taking up more space than my body needs.
Like I’m screaming my presence at every bystander rather than trying to disappear into it.
But before I can cringe and adjust for the ninth time, I remind myself this is natural for males, even in other species; where they expose themselves, marking territory and establishing dominance through the most basic displays.
This bizarre body language must serve a similar purpose for human men too, as an assertion of space and importance.
Strange creatures, men. I don’t recall these patterns with my father or Lachlan, but I’m quickly accepting that nothing I learned about social etiquette in my home will apply to this new world I’ve leaped into.
There was no competition in our home, no hierarchy to maintain, solidifying my dread that I need to stop comparing the two and find my own way here.
Tapping a heel to ease the electricity buzzing through me, I watch Kellen as he continues arranging his materials, the silence stretching taut between us. Much like with Elias in the transport, the quiet is almost comforting in the absence of forced conversation. Familiar, even.
Footsteps echo from the hallway, and moments later the other recruits file in: Nash, Darius, Brenner, Corin, and Silas.
They enter as a pack, informal words flowing between them as if they’ve known each other for years rather than a couple days.
They likely bonded over dinner last night, which is not something I’m going to achieve unless I skip some meals.
Befriending others will not keep me here, though, so what is the point in making the effort? I’m content to be on the outside of their bubble for now.
Instead of spreading throughout the available seating, they cluster together in the middle rows, leaving a conspicuous gap around me.
Not one of them chooses to sit beside or even near me.
I want to feel embarrassed, but I’m only relieved.
On one hand, their avoidance stings the deepest parts of my heart.
On the other, it means fewer opportunities to notice something wrong about me.
Kellen peers up, his eyes briefly meeting mine before scanning the rest of the group. I think he mutters ‘never change’ under his breath, but the words are so soft I can’t be certain my ears aren’t fooling me.
“Fundamentals of mission planning,” he begins without preamble, his voice carrying effortlessly through the space.
“Analyzing intelligence. Risk assessment.” Each phrase drifts with the burden of experience behind it.
“Before I begin, I want to gauge what you already know about these topics, so I can tailor our training accordingly.”
His arms cross, and I’m suddenly fixated on how the uniform fabric stretches across his shoulders, how it tapers at his waist. The muscles in his forearms tense visibly when he focuses on the back of the room, where the others have begun whispering among themselves like children.
A strange sensation flutters through my abdomen, a tight pressure that spreads warmth along my neck.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the feeling yet unable to ignore it.
The physiological response suggests attraction, with subtle changes in my heartrate and blood flow, but experiencing it is bizarre.
I’ve touched myself before, exploring sensations described in the forbidden romance novels I love.
Those books were always more thrilling than the bland approved texts—full of emotions and physical experiences I could only imagine.
Those reactions were not this, though; more curiosity sated by clinical exploration of my own body’s responses.
I study Kellen carefully, noting details I hadn’t registered before.
His hair is close-cropped at the back where a portion of it is visible, dark but not black.
His eyes reflect a deep gray each time he raises them where the light can catch—cool like a storm, but sharp and intelligent.
He’s rolled his sleeves a bit, exposing the map of veins rising along his arms, more pronounced in his current position.
It’s an odd thing to find attractive, yet my mind does. There’s something fascinating about those lines, about the evidence of blood and life flowing just beneath the surface.
Would his skin be rougher than mine? Warmer? My fingertips tingle at the idea of running them through his hair. I’ve never felt the texture of a stranger’s skin or warmth of their body heat—
These thoughts are dangerous. Inappropriate. And yet they flow through my mind unbidden, impossible to contain.
“ASHFORD!”
I jolt in my seat, heart pounding as reality crashes back. Kellen stands directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see him. My mouth dries. Was I just fantasizing about my instructor while he was speaking? Right in front of him?
Yes. Yes, I was.
Laughter ripples from behind me, and someone calls out, “Sleeping with your eyes open, Ashford?” More snickers follow.
I ignore them, focusing on my leader’s impassive mask. His head tilts to one side, and I imagine his brow raising behind the black barrier.
“Were you paying attention?” he asks, voice measured and low.
I should lie. Nod and repeat whatever he just said; but my mind is blank, and I’m lost in the strange sensation of being caught in such an intimate daydream. So I swallow thick saliva and shake my head mutely.
He leans closer, voice dropping further until only a breath of a whisper greets my ears. “What were you paying attention to, then, recruit?”
Stars kill me. I would be surprised if he didn’t already know the answer…
his voice captures something rough and primal, a shiver racing through my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
My heart hammers against each rib, blood rushing to my face beneath the blessed mask.
There’s no way I’m admitting I was mentally cataloging his body like some specimen to study.
My head shakes again, words failing me.