his to command
. . .
Jace
I don't tolerate weakness. Not in my men, not in myself, and definitely not in the recruits who think they've got what it takes to make it through my program.
The Navy might call it "Elite Civilian Operator Training," but I call it hell on earth.
Because that's what it needs to be. The world these recruits are training for doesn't give a shit about their feelings, their limits, or their dreams. The world will chew them up and spit them out unless I transform them into something the world can't break.
That's my job. And I'm fucking good at it.
Thirty-nine years old, twenty of them spent in service, my body is a map of every mission that nearly killed me.
The scars cutting across my torso, the burn mark on my left shoulder, the jagged line running from my temple to my jaw—they're reminders that survival isn't guaranteed.
Not even for the best. Especially not for the best.
I scan the training yard as dawn breaks, the recruits lining up in perfect formation.
My program isn't standard military. These civilians come to me because they want to become operators capable of missions that don't exist on paper.
Private security. Extraction teams. The kind of work that requires you to function in hellish conditions without breaking. I prepare them for that reality.
"Today's going to hurt," I announce, my voice carrying across the yard without me having to raise it. They've learned to listen. "You think yesterday was bad? Today will make you beg for yesterday."
Not a single one reacts. Good. I've beaten that instinct out of them already, and we're only two weeks in. Seventy percent washout rate is standard for my program. I'm hoping for eighty this time. Only the truly exceptional should make it through.
"Three-mile run, full gear. Then obstacle course, combat training, and water exercises until lunch. After lunch, we do it all again."
Their eyes harden with resolve. All except one recruit in the back row, who flinches slightly. I zero in on the movement, already calculating which of these fuckers is about to drop out.
But it's not what I expect. It's her.
The only female recruit in this cycle, Aubrey Cole.
Five-foot-two, maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet.
She shouldn't be here. Shouldn't have made it past the first screening, let alone the first week of training.
But there she stands, covered in bruises, dirt caked under her fingernails, dark circles under her eyes—and a stubborn lift to her chin that says she's not going anywhere.
I've seen her type before. They burn bright for a few days, then flame out spectacularly. But she's made it longer than I expected. Much longer.
"Move out!" I bark, and they take off, gear clanking as they run.
I pace alongside, watching their form, their breathing, their mental state. Most of them are former military, used to physical demands. A few are athletes or have backgrounds in combat sports. But the girl—Aubrey—she's different. Nothing in her file explains why she's here or how she's keeping up.
Halfway through the run, a recruit named Thompson starts to lag, breath coming in ragged gasps. I get in his face immediately.
"You dying, Thompson? Because unless you're fucking dying, you better pick up the pace."
He pushes harder, face red with exertion and humiliation.
My eyes drift back to Aubrey. She's struggling too, but in a different way.
Her steps are perfectly measured, her breathing controlled.
She's not trying to keep up with the men's longer strides—she's found her own rhythm.
Smart. Her face is a mask of concentration, but I can see the pain there, the way her legs tremble with each impact.
Something uncomfortable tightens in my chest. I force my attention elsewhere.
At the obstacle course, they're all exhausted. This is where I separate the warriors from the washouts. The wall climb first—twelve feet straight up, no footholds.
"Cole!" I call out, watching her head snap to attention. "You're up first."
Testing her. Expecting her to fail.
She approaches the wall, tiny next to its imposing height. The men watch, some with skepticism, others with barely concealed amusement. She studies it for three seconds, then backs up, takes a running start, and leaps.
Her fingers catch the top edge, muscles straining as she dangles. For a moment, I think she'll drop. But she grits her teeth, arms shaking violently, and pulls herself up inch by painful inch until she rolls over the top.
Blood trails from her palms where the rough wood tore her skin.
Fuck.
I wasn't expecting that. Neither were the other recruits. Their expressions shift from amusement to something closer to respect.
"The rest of you better not get shown up by a girl half your size," I growl, but my eyes stay on Aubrey as she descends the other side, face set in grim determination.
Throughout the morning, I push them harder than usual, especially her. I make her repeat exercises when her form slips even slightly. I demand more reps, faster times, perfect execution. Testing her limits. Waiting for her to break.
She doesn't. Her body fails her repeatedly—trembling, stumbling, gasping for breath—but her will never wavers. Each time she falls, she gets back up. Each time I demand more, she gives it.
By noon, they're wrecked. Sprawled across the training yard, sucking down water, some looking like they might vomit. Aubrey sits alone, breathing hard, dirt and sweat streaking her face. She's pressing a hand to her side, trying to hide a wince.
Maybe cracked a rib. Maybe just pushed too hard.
Then it happens. A recruit named Davis approaches her, offering his water bottle. He touches her shoulder, helping her stand.
Something hot and primal flares in my gut. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack.