Hunted (Blackwing Hearts #1)

1. Addie

ADDIE

RIOPY – WYDEN DOWN

A bucket of ice water to the face never did inspire a good start to the day. Not when said bucket included actual ice cubes pelting every inch of my exposed skin. For that matter, neither did the leering face of one egotistical instructor hovering over me, empty bucket in hand.

Hunter Beckett was a teenage girl’s wet dream.

All six feet, three inches of broad shoulders, golden, sun-kissed skin, forest green eyes, and abs so shredded you could grate cheese on them.

Thankfully, my hormone expansion years were long behind me, and I was jaded enough to see right through his pretty facade.

Usually.

It definitely helped remove any lingering effects of rose-coloured glasses whenever he deigned to open his sinful mouth and hurl another insult my way. Every word he ever uttered was expertly designed to chip away at a person’s resolve or pass harsh truths through perfect teeth.

“It’s coronation day, Ice Queen. Wake the fuck up,” he barked into my freshly doused face. “Assessment starts in five!”

Beckett’s announcement tore through the room like a gunshot, rousing all sixteen other initiates in various states of panic. Somehow I’d been the only lucky recruit to receive the ice water alarm clock—for the fourth morning in a row.

Figures.

“Yes, Sir!” I shouted, leaping to my feet.

It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to bite my lip and hold an impending grin at bay when the saturated covers I’d just flung off my legs flicked a neat arc of water across Beckett’s torso.

I guess that’s what happens when you effectively waterboard someone and remain standing too close, Sir.

Before I could take so much as one step towards my trunk, he leaned in, rooting my feet to the spot.

He was perilously close—close enough that I could smell the faint hint of mint toothpaste on his breath, mixing with a disgustingly intoxicating cologne that had me scowling at the traitorous throb between my legs.

“I know you need more beauty sleep than the others, Sinclair, but that’s no excuse for sleeping in,” he murmured, his warm, minty breath dancing across my frigid cheek. “Though judging by that face, I should have let you rest another hour. At least.”

Asshole.

I glowered further as he straightened, self-assured smirk firmly in place on his smug, tanned face.

“Something to say, recruit?” he goaded, crossing ridiculously toned forearms across his equally mammoth chest.

I refused to bite. I would not be baited—not on an assessment day.

Instead, I stubbornly clamped my jaw shut on the vitriol lingering just behind my teeth, refusing to meet Fleur’s livid gaze across the room.

It wouldn’t do me any favours to see the furious glare on the face of my best friend right now.

“Good. Clean this mess before drills. And don’t”—he paused, eyeing me severely, like I was a speck of mud on his perfectly polished boot—“be late.”

And just like that, Hunter Beckett waltzed out the door, initiating a five-minute countdown that felt more like a bomb defusal than a wake-up call.

While every other recruit dashed for the shared bathroom, I spent minute five wrenching the soaked bedcovers off my cot, replacing them with a fresh set from the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Minute four disappeared as I raced down the hall, arms laden with a clean set of training gear, swearing at the six-person-deep queue to use one of the three available toilets.

Minute three was wasted hopping from foot to foot, desperately trying not to piss my pants while the bastards in front of me took their sweet-ass time evacuating their bowels before drills.

I contemplated using the shower stall, but decided to braid my hair instead—a distraction from the excruciating need to pee.

With two minutes left, I finished securing my long platinum hair in a braid that wouldn’t last more than five minutes without falling apart—a futile battle, really. I finally emptied my bladder, cursing out the last fucking prick who’d left me with an empty roll of toilet paper.

Minute one went to drip-drying and throwing on my standard-issue black winter training gear—black cargos, a black long-sleeved tee, and black military-style boots.

I raced down one of the institution’s darkened flights of stairs to join my comrades in the open quadrangle at the heart of Blackwing Academy.

Who were standing in a downpour.

Fucking excellent.

And with two seconds to spare, I skidded into formation beside an acne-faced boy I hadn’t bothered to learn the name of over the last eighteen months.

Judging by his withering glare, I’d just stolen our physical instructor’s chance to exert further physical punishment—none other than the illustrious Hunter fucking Beckett.

Unsurprisingly, he was now flanked by his two best friends and brothers in arms: Evander Lockwood and Deklan Pearce.

Evander, or Van as they called him, was a literal genius.

Despite looking like someone’s preppy college brother, with a tall, wiry frame, blue eyes behind glasses with wire frames, and sweet, honey-brown curls, he was giving Milo Thatch in the best of ways—at least until he called you out in front of the class and asked a question that made you feel like a moron for not knowing the answer.

I’d made it a personal challenge to always know the answers, but he never seemed to call on me for them anyway.

Deklan was another story altogether. Known as Dek to his brothers and Instructor Pearce to us, he looked more like Beckett’s actual brother than Van did.

An inch taller, he possessed the same, strong sleeper build, but his eyes were what set him apart.

Sharp, hazel irises stared back at me across the lawn, lingering for a moment longer than polite.

They flashed with some hidden thought I couldn’t even begin to guess at before he jerked away in clear dismissal.

The movement only highlighted the cords in his neck and the Grim Reaper tattoo plastered down the left side of it.

I’d always found it somewhat amusing—that a literal assassin pretty much announced his line of work in ink across his skin to any who dared read into it.

The trio of unmatched killers standing silently in front of our cohort had graduated four years ago and were nothing short of whispered legends within these halls. Somehow, they’d already risen through the ranks to hold positions of authority at the Academy—faster than anyone else, ever.

Suspicious, if you asked me.

All three cinderblocks of men were our main instructors of final year, or Assessment Year—otherwise known as Ass Year, because it sucked ass.

Beckett honed—or rather, punished—our bodies, Lockwood trained our minds, leaving Pearce to sharpen our weaponry skills.

Rumour had it he could nail a headshot from two clicks away.

I called bullshit.

Beckett’s glare coated my skin like tar as I stood at attention in the pouring rain, waiting for our carefully selected hell—read: evaluation task—to be announced.

I refused to entertain his ire. I would not bend beneath the weight of it.

Instead, I remained stalwart, staring straight ahead lest I face the consequences of showing him I was provokable.

What was the point in ogling my superior’s slightly curling hair—so dark it looked black—as it funnelled drops of rainwater down the planes of his face?

Or of noting how his solid midnight t-shirt was plastered across his obscenely ripped torso like a wet hug, leaving precisely nothing to the imagination?

Okay, fine—so my peripherals were ogling.

“Two laps of the field, then back to me for sparring assignments. Let’s go!” he ordered, receiving a collective groan in response. “Halt!” He grinned—which never boded well. “On second thought, you’re gonna run Devil’s Pass instead.”

I grimaced internally, unwilling to risk his wrath by letting my face broadcast my dread aloud.

Devil’s Pass was a hellforsaken obstacle course that might as well have been crafted by Lucifer himself.

Consisting of a winding track up one mountain, a zipline across to a second mountain, then obstacles all the way down, it was a surefire way to lose your breakfast—luckily, there hadn’t been time for me to eat anything this morning.

“Blackwing does not suffer cowards or snowflakes!” Beckett bellowed. “We create only the hardiest, most unshakeable assassins. Let’s go, recruits!”

It was true. Blackwing Academy systematically ensured all the weak links in our cohort would be cut before graduation in six short months. Devil’s Pass was just one method of that. If the mountains didn’t come for you, Blackwing itself would.

It started with Shaila Weaving in first year, who’d left the grounds in a body bag after a failed interrogation.

Then Rory Jameson left the same way a week later.

I stopped paying attention to names after that.

Out of an original class size of thirty-one recruits, seventeen remained—all vying for top spot and that one dream designation on Assignment Day.

And now sixteen of them were ahead of me on Devil’s Pass, while I was too busy not ogling.

I launched into a jog, ignoring the glares of my instructors and the chill of icy rainwater down my back.

Trekking two kilometres up Black Mountain was a mean feat on a regular day, let alone in this weather, at the back of a very competitive, very cutthroat pack of would-be assassins.

Thankfully, running was one of my few emotional vices—and the only one I could access within Academy walls.

I loved the feeling of being uncatchable; of outrunning the things I’d outlived.

I caught and passed three initiates on my way up to the first peak—Widow’s Drop—which, thankfully, meant I wasn’t dead-last anymore.

Last could get you dead around here.