22. Addie #2
“Zara Storm,” he murmured, eliciting a series of gasps as the name fell from his pretty lips.
Well, fuck. I remembered when that story dropped. It was only a few years ago. The overnight sensation, Zara Storm, grabbed the music industry by the balls and started twisting—singing songs about how fundamentally fucked the patriarchy was and how broken the music industry secretly was.
They found her in a bathtub. Not a drop of water in it, but blood everywhere—like whoever killed her felt bad enough about the mess the poor cleaning staff would have to deal with that they sequestered it to the one area it wouldn’t matter got messy.
The tabloids said her boyfriend did it, but the authorities never found proof, never had so much as a photograph of the elusive Hudson Harlow.
I guess we finally knew what Hudson Harlow looked like.
Beckett’s face was carefully expressionless. He betrayed none of what he felt about being outed—the perfect little pocket assassin for Varco to keep in his coat.
The Commander cleared his throat. “My point is that out there, no one cares about who you are or what you want. They only care about their own selfish desires and what you can gain them. They will not admire your training or fear your resolve—they will simply stop existing. And if you’ve done your job as we’ve trained you, no one will associate their absence with you.
“Your goal, no matter your assignment, is erasure without authorship.
“Execution without association.
“And above all, remaining useful to the Academy—because usefulness, you will find, is a fragile condition.”
My heart raced like a stampede of stallions—coiled somewhere within my intestines, because it had dropped several minutes ago when Beckett’s green gaze met mine across the room. Intense and unyielding—like a warning. Like a storm.
Like he knew something I didn’t.
“Without further ado, let’s uncover who our next batch of Assigned Assassins have proven themselves to be,” Varco announced, now back behind his podium. His middle finger scooted his wire-rimmed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose as he read from the sheet in front of him.
“Dakarai Abina.”
Dak froze, eyes wide.
I froze for an entirely different reason. This was it. This was my one, main rival for Eagle.
“Shrike,” Varco declared, and Dak visibly deflated.
Shrike was better than Raven. Shrikes—or butcherbirds as they were more commonly called—were ground-level assassins.
They were essentially glorified hitmen—but infinitely better than glorified prostitutes.
Not that there was anything wrong with being a prostitute—it just wasn’t the line of work a virgin could ever feel comfortable in.
But Dak’s butcherbird classification left the skies wide open for me. Eth’s elbow to my side indicated he thought so too.
Commander Varco cycled through the first half of his list of names—Cohen and Ace among them, assigned as a Shrike and a Raven respectively—until he landed on another familiar moniker.
“Mercy Lopez. Swallow.”
The first Swallow assignment. Also the first female recruit called out.
Mercy remained motionless while Seb and Bodie snickered amongst themselves from Ethan’s right. I didn’t think she was surprised by the assignment—she didn’t believe her lot would end up any differently. And I didn’t particularly think she minded, either.
Mercy was always overtly open with her sexuality, and more than content with her dainty appearance. In fact, I thought she’d do quite well as a Swallow—some women excelled in that line of work.
And honestly? It was better than being dead.
I bet even Fleur would give anything to be named Swallow instead of wherever it was she’d ended up. But I couldn’t dwell on that—not now.
Varco had spat out more names and designations, and then it was my turn.
Eagle still hadn’t come up.
I practically had it in the bag.
Excitement prickled my skin—validation had my hair standing on end, until finally—
“Adelaide Sinclair.”
Please say Eagle. Please say Eagle. SAY. EAGLE.
Varco’s gaze seemed to slide over me like oil in water, leaving an invisible residue on my skin. His upper lip curled, revealing a pointed canine in a barely-there sneer.
“Swallow.”
What?
“No.”
Surely I’d misheard him. Surely the sharp whine ringing through my eardrums must have muddied the words.
The room stilled, a hundred heads snapping my way, and only then did I realise I’d said it aloud.
Commander Varco paused on an inhale, his gaze jumping from Ethan back to me, because Eth’s was the name he was about to call next.
He was unarguably livid. His face—tomato-red and getting darker with every passing second—wrinkled in a way not dissimilar to a constipated toddler, and I almost laughed at the comparison.
“What did you say, Sir?” I said louder, silencing the ringing and the rest of the room.
It was so silent I swore everyone could surely hear my galloping heart.
Commander Varco straightened ever so slowly—unwinding like a coiled serpent readying to strike.
“Please, Sir,” I tried again. “What did you just say? I must be mistaken.”
The tension radiated off of Ethan’s body from a foot away—though whether he was readying to spring to my defence or leap away to protect his own skin was anyone’s guess. I was digging my own grave here, with toothpicks in lieu of a shovel.
Varco’s finger tapped the sheet atop his podium. His eyes were cold, but his lips… they were giddy at the prospect of repeating my fate. Of driving it home, again, in front of everyone.
“Adelaide Sinclair,” he said, voice lethally soft. “Swallow.”
And there it was: the final nail in my coffin.
Better get to digging, Addie.
“There must be some mistake. I’m the best shot of our year.”
Eth’s eyes pierced my right cheek, and I felt another three sets further off to the right burrowing in as well. Imploring me to stop driving those toothpicks further into the metaphorical dirt.
But I was done for already. And I’d rather keep digging than surrender to that fate.
“Apparently not,” Varco returned, each syllable like an icicle to my gut.
My mind whirled, but I knew in my bones I was right.
“Unlike every other recruit beside you, you failed to complete one of your final assessments.”
My brow furrowed. There’s no way—I aced all of them!
“Did you not leave the field during the Devil’s Pass assessment, foregoing the final target?” He raised a bushy brow in that way someone does when they already know the answer to the question they’d just asked.
I was jittery—my fingers tapping relentlessly against my thighs as I realised…
…he was right.
My gaze shot to Pearce. Like a true coward, he avoided my eyes. The edges of my vision faded to red when I put words to what, exactly, he’d done: fucked me then fucked me over.
That chauvinistic, pig-headed, spineless—
A hand clamping tightly around my wrist gave me pause. Teeth clenched, I looked down, startled to discover I’d taken a full step out of line, well on my way to carving my vengeance from Pearce’s skin.
Ethan’s warm, firm grip tugged me backwards, then loosened. His fingers slid down my skin, only far enough to thread through my own, grounding me as Varco continued, oblivious.
“Even if you’d managed to hit the bullseye in one shot, Miss Sinclair, you lost points during the compound assessment anyway.
In combination, these deductions slid you down the ranks of your comrades, landing you at the top of the Swallow list.” His teeth flashed in a vicious grin.
“I look forward to witnessing you in action.”
It was an oil-laced threat.
He’d either witness me first-hand or would relish in hunting me down if I fled.
I almost laughed. The choice before me was simple: split or Swallow.
The ground felt more solid beneath my feet as I came to terms with it, with selling my soul, my body, for the sake of staying alive.
Maybe I’d take Eth up on his offer—at least that way I’d still have some autonomy over the loss of choice, loss of security, and loss of maidenhood.
At least then it wouldn’t be forcibly snatched by someone Varco handpicked.
I looked up at his profile. He was tall, handsome, someone I trusted with my life. Could I trust him with this, too?
“Ethan Taylor,” Varco barked, finally continuing.
Eth went rigid as he waited—no doubt expecting Raven, the male counterpart to my Swallow.
But when Varco said, “Eagle,” his eyes went wide as saucers, blinked once, and turned to pin me with silent apologies.
But each pin sank a little deeper than the last, and I realised that no—no I couldn’t trust him with that, too.