“Aetos sent him,” I whisper to Imogen. “I think we’re being targeted.” Gods, I hope that’s not why Xaden didn’t show yesterday.
Her green eyes flare a second before Ridoc appears at my other side, his shoulder brushing mine.
“Damn, Sorrengail,” he mutters, offering me an arm I don’t take.
“It’s always something, isn’t it?” I try to smile as the two of them walk slowly back to the edge of the mat, giving me enough support that I don’t fall to either side.
“He was probably sent as a message to your mother,” Emetterio says, shaking his head. “Same thing happened to your older sister during her years.”
The first-years stare in wide-eyed horror as I glance around the bloody mat, noting that Rhiannon, Dain, and Sawyer are missing. Right. Because they have to take Nadine and the nameless first-year’s body.
Nadine is dead because she said she was me.
Heavy, eye-prickling sorrow threatens to take me out at my throbbing knees, but I can’t allow myself to feel it. Can’t let it in. Not with everyone watching. It goes into the box where I keep every other overwhelming emotion.
Sloane and Aaric stand in the middle of the mat, watching me with varying shades of shock on their face. There’s far more concern on Aaric’s face than Sloane’s.
“Is someone going to clean up that mess and fight, or what?” I ask, ignoring the drip of thick liquid down the back of my neck. Standing here covered in his blood is better than lying there soaked in mine.
“And you wanted to take her on, Mairi.” One of the first-years scoffs from across the mat. He has deep-set brown eyes under angular brows and a wide square jaw, but I don’t know his name. I don’t fucking want to know his name.
I already know Sloane’s and Aaric’s, and that’s too much.
I knew Nadine’s.
We stand shoulder to shoulder as the first-years mop up the blood then finish their assessment, and I focus on cataloging every single thing that’s wrong with Sloane’s fighting style, which is…a lot. In fact, she looks like she’s spent nearly no time training for the quadrant.
That can’t be right. Liam was the best fighter in our year, and every marked one knows they have to report to the Riders Quadrant when they’re of age. Surely she’s trained.
“You sure she’s Liam’s sister?” Ridoc asks.
“Yep,” Imogen answers with a long sigh. “But she sure wasn’t fostered with fighters, and it shows.”
Aaric puts her on her ass six times with little to no effort.
Well, shit. This complicates some things. Like keeping her alive.
An hour later, I make it through physics under Rhi’s watchful gaze, more than aware of the first-year’s blood drying on my skin and holding my head high when other cadets stare. It’s easier once the ringing in my ears lessens, but I’m still nauseated as hell after class.
I beg off from dinner and turn down Rhi’s offer of help to get to my room, slowly but surely taking the steps up to the second-years’ floor. Every bone, every muscle, every fiber of my being aches.
A heartbeat before I reach for my door handle, I feel it, the familiar midnight-tinted shadow wrapping around my mind.
Relief courses through me as I push open the door and see Xaden leaning against the wall between my desk and my bed, looking ready to kill someone as usual, his arms folded over his chest.
“It’s been eight days,” I croak, wincing.
“I know,” he counters, pushing off the wall and crossing the room in a few steps. “And from what Tairn showed Sgaeyl, I should have told my commander to fuck off and gotten here sooner.” He takes my face in his hands in a way that feels completely different from the way Emetterio had earlier, and the rage shining in his eyes is at odds with the gentleness of his touch as he takes stock of my injuries.
“The blood is his.” My throat feels like I swallowed fire.
“Good.” His jaw flexes as his gaze drops to the bruises I know are around my neck.
“I don’t even know what his name was.”
“I know.” His hands fall away, and I immediately mourn their loss.
“Colonel Aetos sent him.”
He nods, the motion curt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t kill him first.”
“The first-year? Or Aetos?”
“Both.” He doesn’t smile at my attempt at a joke. “Let’s get you clean and wrapped up.”
“You can’t go around killing cadets. You’re an officer now.”
“Watch me.”
“What’s it like at Samara?” I ask him hours later as I sit cross-legged on my bed, bathed and choking down the bowl of soup he brought up for me from the mess in the main campus. Every swallow hurts, but he’s right—I can’t afford to weaken myself by not eating.
“Look at you, asking questions.” A corner of Xaden’s mouth rises as he leans back, taking over the armchair in the corner of my room, sharpening his daggers on a strap of leather. He ditched the flight leathers while I was in the bath, but he somehow looks even better in his new uniform. I can’t help but notice he didn’t add patches to this one, either. He’d only ever worn his wingleader insignia and wing designation while he was in the quadrant.
