3. Addie
ADDIE
FRINGE ELEMENT – ROAD LESS TRAVELED
Running down a steep mountain pass is no easy feat even under the best of conditions. Once you add in shitty, obscure dawn lighting, mud from recent rainfall, howling winds, a fucked-up shoulder injury—not to mention a trio of would-be assassins hot on your ass—you’ve got a recipe from hell.
I guess Devil’s Pass was living up to its name today.
Five hundred metres flew by beneath my waterlogged boots until I came face-to-face with the second of three obstacles down the Ridge: a ten-metre-long, ten-centimetre-wide balance beam.
The cylindrical length of wood was the only way through this section of track and was positioned far enough away from the rock face that nobody could use it to stabilise their steps.
A roaring hoot came from somewhere above, alerting me that I only had a handful of seconds to traverse it before the aforementioned would-be assassins showed up.
I huffed a short, sharp breath, steeling my resolve, then did something I’d never once successfully accomplished during training exercises, when we were secured via harnesses and safety wires.
I sprinted across the entire length, but in a move so dickheadish it could only be chalked up to the cocktail of adrenaline and fear fermenting in my stomach, I celebrated too early and slipped right at the end.
Instead of jumping lithely off the beam as was my intention, I leaped a second too early, and my boots lost the minuscule sliver of traction they’d managed to retain—thanks to my premature break in momentum.
I slipped sideways, gouging into the wood with my now-splinter-ridden fingers, and skidded to a halt with legs dangling over open air once more.
The beam lay wedged firmly under my armpits, arms wrapped awkwardly overtop, breasts smooshed in the middle.
Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I jerked a leg up and over the thin column of hardwood. After righting myself and realising I now faced backwards, I swallowed any remaining dreg of pride and boot-scooted back the final ninety centimetres.
With a deep, shame-laden sigh, I got back to my feet and sprinted the rest of the way down Sapphire Ridge, leaving more macabre breadcrumbs in my wake.
As the ground levelled out, I pushed through the last line of trees to an open field lined with targets and various racks of weaponry—it was an assassin academy, after all.
The first target was for dagger-throwing, the second for axes, the third for archery, the fourth for handguns, and the fifth and final target was for sniper shots.
There were still a few recruits on the field, including the only two people I really cared about here—Fleur Deveaux and Ethan Taylor.
Thank fuck they made it down unscathed.
Fleur shot me a quick, easy smile before sinking an arrow into the dead centre of the third target without even looking at it.
Eth followed suit, hefting an axe over his head and sinking it into the outer border of the wooden target eight metres away.
He winced, picked up another axe, and shook off his first attempt.
Or at least the first attempt I’d been here to witness.
We were required to hit dead centre in order to progress onto the next target—which was probably why Dakarai Abina was half-heartedly flicking daggers in the general direction of the first target.
He still hadn’t gotten the hang of the wrist snap, but give him a pistol, and that boy could hit a moving target with scary accuracy.
I moved to join him, but before I could take more than two steps, a large, lumbering figure stepped directly into my path. Blocking my way, with arms crossed over his broad chest and a scowl that could rival Beckett’s, Deklan Pearce stood unmoving—our weapons instructor.
“What the fuck happened to you, Sinclair?” he growled, glaring at my bloodied gear, mangled, dripping hands, and obvious shoulder wound.
Intending to ignore the dig, I tried to sidle around him and continue on with the last obstacle left in the Devil’s Pass assessment.
A long, hot shower in relative peace was all I could think about.
Pearce grabbed my left bicep roughly, and I winced at the jolt through my injured shoulder.
Correction: a long, hot shower in relative peace and my instructor’s warm fingers wrapped around my arm were all I could think about.
“I said,” he tried again, voice low and smooth, like the third sip of whisky after a bad day, “what happened?”
I bit my lip, debating how best to answer this direct question from a superior officer. I couldn’t tell him Sebastos Varco had it out for me, couldn’t rat out the son of the Commander—the man all my instructors answered to. I wouldn’t live to see the end of the day.
Instead, I held out my jagged palms, adopted an air of aloofness, and said, “Forgot my gloves, boss.”
Pearce’s eyes narrowed, knowing full well that I was ignoring his interrogation about my other injury, but I was saved from further comment by Sebastos, Bodie, and Eric screeching to a halt at the tree line.
Seb glowered at me—how original—his eyes promising violence, while Pearce’s flicked between us, each with matching dagger wounds on various parts of our bodies.
It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together, and the ill-tempered Instructor dropped my arm with a huff, directing his glare to my would-be murderer.
“Fine. Finish your tests and head in,” he grumbled before storming off towards the demon trio.
“Hey,” I greeted Dak half-heartedly, picking up a blade the size of my hand and stepping up perpendicular to the target.
“Hello,” he answered slowly, eyeing me warily. “That’s going to need stitches,” he said in his drawling South African accent, gesturing to my still-bleeding shoulder.
“Yup,” I agreed, cocking my arm back, then snapping it forwards forcefully in a clean motion. “It is.” My dagger hit the bullseye with a solid thunk, earning a wolf whistle from Fleur’s direction and a groan from Dak’s. “Got four targets left to hit first, though.”
He sighed despondently. “How did you do that?”
“It’s all in the wrist, buddy,” I replied, offering him a pat on the shoulder as I passed to grab an axe. “Snap it at the point of release.”
Three seconds later, his dagger smacked into the board hilt-first. It didn’t stick, but at least he was hitting the centre now.
“Just like that. A little more oomph next time, though.”
I tested the weight of the weapon in my hands—this was going to hurt like a motherfucker. I hissed as I hefted the axe behind my head with both arms, causing a fresh stream of blood to trickle down my side, and threw the weapon with a shout of barely restrained agony.
Fuck Seb and his stupid fucking dagger. I hope his leg fucking hurts.
“Nice!” Eth called from the pistol station.
At least I didn’t have to repeat the action a second time, since the axe hit dead centre too. And a loud “Yes!” from my left indicated Dak had finally had some success with the daggers. “Thanks, Addie!”
Wielding the bow wasn’t as bad as launching the axe, but my heart still stalled in my chest when Pearce’s solemn, quiet presence stopped behind me to watch.
I took a breath in, drew the string back further to rest against my cheek, balancing the arrow in its notch.
“Lift your elbow higher,” he murmured.
I did as instructed, grinning when my arrow sank into the bullseye right next to Fleur’s. When I swung round to thank him, Pearce’s brows lowered into a deep, furious scowl. The words dissolved on my tongue like pop rocks fizzing out into nothingness.
I rolled my eyes and re-racked the bow, picking up a Glock instead. I checked that the pistol was loaded—because fuck looking that incompetent while Captain Eagle Eyes was still staring me down—and stepped up to the line.
Feet shoulder-width apart, safety off, right hand on the grip, left hand supporting right hand, inhale, exhale, shoot.
I squeezed the trigger gently, taking the brunt of the recoil in my right arm, cursing quietly at the palm-width space between my bullet hole and the bullseye.
A soft chuckle sounded behind me, followed by the gentle resonance of my instructor.
“Do you always curse like this?” he asked with a touch of amusement.
“Only when I miss,” I grumbled.
His solid presence stepped closer—so close we were almost touching—and my heart simply stopped. Eyes wide, I froze like a deer in the headlights, because Deklan Pearce was dangerous, and I’d be a fool to ignore that lingering sense of peril.
Plus, I was just a damned recruit who shouldn’t be this turned on by the scent of citrus-and-something-else that followed him into my personal space bubble.
“That’s not the right stance for you,” he murmured. “I’ve seen you fight. You thrive in one-on-one combat. Do you have a background in boxing?”
My brows twitched even as I refused to look at anything other than the target.
How did he know that?
“Let me guess, it’s in my file?”
Pearce huffed a quiet laugh, his breath brushing against the nape of my neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “It probably is, but I wouldn’t know. I don’t read them.”
Bullshit.
“I prefer to watch,” he continued, and my mind waged a war against my tongue with his perfect set-up to an innuendo, but miraculously, I managed to refrain from comment.
“People have tells,” he continued, oblivious. “Tiny little things their bodies do that give them away. Like you, for instance.”
“What does my body tell you?” I replied, a little more breathlessly than intended.
Pearce placed his hand on my right hip. His fingers dug into the solid muscle of my upper thigh, while my eyes bugged further out of my head. I gasped as his foot whipped between mine, knocking my right leg back. His toes nudged mine out to a forty-five-degree angle as he quietly instructed me.
Which was his job.
Damn it, Addie.
“Put most of your weight here on this foot.”
That hand slid upwards, maddeningly slow, to rest over my stomach. My traitorous lungs hitched.
“Keep your core nice and tight,” he murmured.
I knew he knew it. I bit my lip, my tongue seconds from losing the battle.
That damned hand lingered for a heartbeat longer before creeping up to snake around mine on the gun. I forgot all about my mangled palms. His touch forced every other thought out of my head.
He pressed in even closer, our bodies well and truly touching now. And somehow, despite his stature, he fit perfectly in the hollows my body provided.
Pearce’s breath tickled the shell of my ear as he reached forward to wrap the fingers of his left hand around mine, giving me an up-close and personal view of the neat tally-mark tattoos inked down that forearm.
Not for the first time, I wondered what they meant.
“Look at the target, not at your hands. Keep your right arm straight and your left slightly bent,” he breathed, sliding his left hand up my ribs and down my arm to rest over top of mine.
“Good, Sinclair,” he said, not bothering to extricate himself.
“Squeeze the trigger on the exhale when you’re ready. ”
My breaths came a little quicker than before. My heart danced loudly in my chest. I inhaled deeply, held it for a full three seconds, then let it out and pulled back on the trigger.
BANG.
Bullseye.
My face split into an easy grin.
“Atta girl,” he whispered, and I could have sworn I heard a wink in those two soft words.
And my tiny, stolen, earned moment of elation was ruined a second later by Sebastos fucking Varco.
“Oh, I get it now,” he sneered from the archery station. “That’s how you got to the top of the initiates ladder so quickly, princess. You slept your way there.”
Bodie and Eric both sniggered, spurring him on.
“You can bet there’ll be a Swallow position with your name on it at Graduation.
” At those words, my stomach dropped—their insinuation.
After all, his daddy was the Commander. “And in the meantime, I’ve got another position you can try out, perfect for swallowing.
” Seb spewed the words like poison—and they burned just as badly.
I choked back nausea as he grabbed at his junk in a vulgar gesture, leering at me in a way that promised violence.
Without even thinking, I pivoted, forcing Pearce to take a hasty step back. I stood in the way he’d just shown me, looking down the barrel of the loaded gun pointing at the Commander’s son’s hateful face.
Seb’s eyes widened while mine narrowed in barely contained malice.
Before I could decide whether or not it would be worth pulling the trigger, a low chuckle came from somewhere behind me.
“Consider this a learning opportunity, Varco,” Instructor Pearce growled. “Perhaps you should be more aware of your surroundings… actually have a good, hard look at who you decide to piss off, and what they might be holding in their hands before you do so.”
“She wouldn’t dare,” Varco spat, though his brows twitched in concern.
I didn’t move—didn’t blink.
“Wouldn’t I?” I interjected, voice low. Dark. Curious.
I wasn’t entirely sure I wouldn’t.
Sebastos straightened, seeming to consider Pearce’s words and my countenance. Slowly, he raised both hands in begrudging surrender. His shark eyes glared with abundant hatred, and something a little like fear.
I lifted a solitary brow in response, daring him to try his luck.
“She just hit that target dead centre,” Pearce rumbled, pointing at the handgun target metres away. “And you’re a hell of a lot closer than it is. Care to place bets on her likelihood of missing now?”
Seb remained silent—for once.
“Watch your fucking mouth,” Pearce seethed. “Put the gun away, Sinclair. Target practice is over. Go wash up and get that shoulder taken care of. Deveaux, go with her.”
“Yes, Sir,” Fleur responded, jolting into action.
However, I didn’t move—I still wasn’t sure I wouldn’t follow through on my threat.
I could do it. I could kill the slimy prick before he had a chance to get his hands on me. But I’d undoubtedly just end up dead anyway, courtesy of his father and the rest of the Academy leadership.
It was that realisation of inevitability that finally made my decision for me. I tossed the pistol down onto the table with the other handguns and stalked off the field without another word—without so much as a backwards glance.
Even though I could feel a set of hazel eyes tracking me across the grass.