86. Scarlett
Scarlett
I t was someone’s dumb fucking idea to bring me back to the training circle.
Probably Kane. Or maybe Trace, still trying to fix what none of them could explain.
No one asked if I was ready. They just pointed toward the clearing and expected me to fall in line.
The sun hammered down, burning through the tops of the trees, turning my skin slick beneath the thin tank I’d thrown on. My hands were still shaking. Not from fear. From the kind of fury that simmers hot under the surface, waiting for an outlet. A reason.
This was theirs.
A clearing, a handful of blades, and the audacity to call it training.
Trace stood by the supply crate. Shirtless and still.
Alden adjusted the strap of the rifle across his chest but didn’t meet my gaze. He hadn’t really looked at me since the porch.
Kane was already rolling his shoulders, walking in lazy circles around the perimeter of the space like we weren’t here for a reason none of us could name.
The second crate hit the ground with a dull thud. This one heavier. Locked.
Rhett crouched to crack it open, using some tiny tool he pulled from his back pocket like he’d done it a thousand times.
Lid up. Metal glinting in the sun.
My stomach dipped.
Not knives this time.
Guns.
Rows of matte pistols, neatly holstered beside full magazines and boxes of ammo. Everything clean. Labeled. Ready.
“This some kind of joke?” I asked, not even bothering to mask the bite in my voice.
“Nope,” Rhett said, pulling one free. “This is your upgrade.”
Trace stepped forward and dropped a loaded pistol into my hand without warning.
The weight landed like truth. Cold. Dense. Too familiar.
“You’re not here for cardio, Sunshine,” he said quietly.
I stared at the thing. My palm curled around the grip like it remembered.
I didn’t want it to remember.
“You’ve used one before,” Alden said, setting up targets in the distance—smeared outlines of human torsos painted on wood. “You just don’t know it.”
I hated how steady my grip was. How natural my stance fell into place when I raised the gun. Like my body had its own script.
Kane muttered something under his breath—something about muscle memory and bad decisions—but I was already sighting the target.
Breathe in.
Squeeze.
The shot rang out, ripping through the air like a punch.
Missed wide.
“Try again,” Trace said, no correction, no softness.
I didn’t wait. Repositioned. Fired again.
Closer.
Another.
Hit.
The sharp sting of recoil buzzed through my arms, but I didn’t lower the weapon. Not yet.
“Better,” Rhett said, moving behind me to reset the rounds. “Still slow.”
“Then don’t blink,” I muttered.
Alden walked up with another mag. “We’re not playing catch-up anymore, Scar. That bracelet? That bond? It lit up everything we were trying to keep buried.”
“Meaning what?” I asked, already loading the next mag.
“Meaning they know now. And they won’t wait.”
My blood ran hotter. Not scared. Not yet. But close.
I raised the gun again, but this time, something cracked open in my chest. Not panic. Not dread.
Rage.
I emptied the clip without pausing.
Target shredded.
Trace gave a low exhale. “Welcome back.”
Trace caught my elbow before I could reload.
“Try it moving,” he said, nodding to the far line of targets. “You need to be faster than them.”
“Faster than who?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Kane tossed a weighted vest my way. “Put this on. Real fun starts now.”
I caught it midair. “That was your idea of warm-up?”
“Someone’s gotta humble you,” he said, smirking as he stepped behind the makeshift barricades. “Might as well be me.”
I squared my stance and raised the gun.
Movement across the field—Kane sprinted behind the barriers, triggering the targets. A blur of sound and wood. Pop—pop—pop.
I moved. Not graceful. Not smooth. Just fast.
My boots scraped hard against gravel as I dodged left, then right, squeezing off shots. Two missed. One hit the edge. Fourth one nailed dead center. The recoil burned through my shoulders, but I didn’t stop.
They thought I needed training.
But the deeper I went, the more familiar it felt.
The weight of the gun. The drag of the vest. The instinct to shoot first, aim second.
Someone had taught me to fight. I just didn’t remember who.
Trace watched from the shadows beneath the palm, arms folded, tension rolling off him in waves—not with judgment, but with restraint. As if he wanted to step in. As if it killed him not to.
Kane reappeared, slowing his jog. “You move better than half the recruits we’ve seen.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need compliments. I needed answers.
“Switch,” Rhett called out. “Hand-to-hand.”
I turned and froze. Trace stepped forward, already shrugging out of his jacket, sleeves rolled, eyes dark.
Of course it had to be him.
We circled. No countdown. No signal.
He lunged. I dropped. Grabbed his wrist mid-strike, twisted, kicked his knee sideways. He caught himself before hitting the ground—but barely. His breath was shallow, his stare unreadable.
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not pride. Not surprise.
Recognition.
Alden tossed Trace a towel. “She’s remembering faster than we thought.”
“She shouldn’t be remembering at all,” Rhett muttered.
I yanked the vest off and let it fall at my feet. My shirt clung to my spine, soaked and heavy, but I barely felt it.
I turned toward the group. “Someone better explain why my body remembers things my brain can’t.”
Zeke’s voice came from behind, dry and clipped. “Because your life wasn’t supposed to go this way. And now that it has—now that the bond’s sealed—they’ll come.”
I turned toward him.
“They who?”
“The ones who thought you were dead. The ones who hoped you were.”