Chosen Soldiers

by R. H. Scott

  She took an angry step towards the group. “What I am angry about is that the only ­people on 27 who haul ass are Jared and I. You guys barely make the cut. It’s like you’re waiting to be Dismissed.”

  They glared at her with defiance. Apparently hearing the truth out loud hurt them too. Good, Sloan thought, maybe they’ll realize how serious this is.

  Mika shook her head. “You can be such a bitch, Sloan.”

  I am what they made me to be.

  “Do you think I care that I ‘can be such a bitch’? I am pushing you; I am trying to keep you alive. Now, get the hell out of my way and think about the fact that you and Erica will be training with me for all of tomorrow’s session and you better be damn well ready for it.”

  She could feel Jared reaching for her hand. He was going to calm her, going to speak on her behalf . . . but she didn’t want to hear it. She jerked away from him and broke through the group. Shoving the door open, she rounded the corner quickly, immediately knocking into someone leaning against the wall.

  It was Elijah Daniels. Of course it’s you again, she thought angrily, regaining her footing. He turned and looked down at her expectantly, as though he had been waiting for her. His dark hair was messy—­barely regulation—­his wide jaw clenched, his broad shoulders pulled back tight. He was tall too, towering over her by several inches. Immediately—­oddly—­Sloan felt self-­conscious, wiping at her bloodied face quickly, and then she felt self-­conscious for feeling self-­conscious. Why do you care what he thinks of you?

  She crossed her arms, refraining from messing with her appearance. “What’s your problem?”

  He leaned over her with his imposing form. “What’s my problem? What is your problem? I was trying to help you.”

  She shook her head at him, feeling her honey-­blond hair stick against her bloodied forehead—­her braid must have come loose. “I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help. You’re not even on my table—­you have no right intervening in my training.”

  He stood up straighter at her words, a look of reproach in his eyes. “I am a captain—­I have every right to intervene in that hall. I take rank over you and the redhead.”

  He’s pulling rank on me? It was one thing to hear it from General Stone, quite another to get a lecture from this guy.

  “You may be captain, but so is Jared, and if he thought intervening was necessary, he would have.”

  Elijah huffed, a cynical expression playing over his face. “If your boyfriend cared about you having a beat-­up face then he would have done something.” The deliberate disgust in the way he referred to Jared confused her.

  Do you even know Jared by more than reputation? she thought, knowing the jealous dislike so many of their peers had for her and her partner.

  She shook her head at him. “Jared cares. He just doesn’t leap at opportunities to make me look weak, and helpless, so thanks for that, Captain.”

  Sloan didn’t know why, amidst her sarcasm, her voice sounded unnaturally doubtful. She knew Jared would have intervened—­he had done it before.

  She had been fifteen at the time, sparring with Joshua Bleak, a senior boy. Joshua had been faster, stronger, infinitely more capable than her. He had a renowned temper, but she hadn’t known before their spar that Joshua had a darkness in him too. A sadist, he relished beating her and laughed as he dominated their spar. Before any trainers had even noticed their unsanctioned fight, Jared had intervened, but not before Joshua had broken her eye socket and three ribs.

  The memory filled her mind. She had felt her ribs crushing underneath the strength of Joshua’s hands. She had tried everything she knew and none of it worked. He had been relentless in his assaults and it had terrified her. She had screamed for Jared, knowing that wherever he was, he would come for her. And he had. Jared, at fifteen, had already become a champion fighter who could contend with senior boys. Which, it turned out, put a target on Sloan’s back. She could remember waking up in the Infirmary to see Jared, watching her. “What happened today made us both look weak, Sloan.”

  His words had hurt, so surely they had been the truth.

  Elijah shook his head at her. “Defending you makes you look weak? Come on, you’re a seventeen-­year-­old girl who got decked by a guy twice your size and you broke his shoulder. No one thinks you’re the weak one.”

  Sloan thought of Joshua Bleak again, visiting her in the Infirmary. She had woken up to find him sitting right beside her. His mere presence had set her heart monitor off, filling the room with urgent crying beeps. “You let the entire Academy know that Jared Dawson has an Achilles’ heel.” It was as if he had been echoing what Jared had already told her. He had stood and smiled at her, leaning over to brush her hair out of her face. And in that moment, all she had hoped for was that Jared would come help her again.

  That day changed everything. She wouldn’t be anyone’s Briseis. She would never be the reason Jared got hurt, even if he was the reason she was.

  Sloan struggled to hold Elijah’s intense gaze. “What’s your point?”

  “If you were my betrothed, I wouldn’t let someone mess up your face like that.” Elijah slowly raised his hand, as if to touch her cheek. Suddenly, he recoiled, thinking better and letting his hand fall.

  What the hell was that?

  For a moment—­the briefest of moments—­Sloan fell for his words. There was a small part of her that had once wished she didn’t always have to be the strongest, be the hardest, fastest and most vicious. A small part of her that had wished she didn’t have to be the best or the bravest . . . But Jared had loved those qualities in her, and, more importantly, she had loved them too. She loved them more than she loved the idea of being cherished and protected. Being too strong was better than being any form of weak.

  She narrowed her eyes on him, pushing away the thoughts of a world where she didn’t always have to be the best, be the ‘bitch’ she was known to be. “Well, I am not your betrothed. Wake up, Captain. I don’t need protecting.” She moved to sidestep him but he grabbed her arm, holding her near. He ducked low, bringing his mouth to her ear.

  “Need protecting? No, I wouldn’t say you need it, but you damn sure deserve it.”

  His breath trailed over her skin like smoke, leaving the taste of his words, causing her skin to quiver and her to become acutely aware of their closeness. She jerked her arm free and walked away from him, trying to shake off the feeling that being close to him had left her with. She gnawed on her lip, wondering why his words had rattled her so deeply, and the feeling didn’t dissipate until she realized the truth. She had once wished for Jared to say them to her.

  As soon as she got in the pod she took a deep breath. The shell-­shaped elevators were large enough to fit ten ­people when everyone sat on the white leather sofa that curved around the wall. Since childhood, Sloan had thought that being inside the pod was what it would be like to be inside an egg. The pods traveled in all directions—­upward, downward, sideways, like veins through the Academy body—­and they were constantly in use. She was blissfully thankful she had this pod to herself at this particular moment. She quickly punched her living quarters’ code into the keypad, and as the doors slid shut behind her, she caught her reflection in the mirrored walls.

  Her blond hair was stained with the blood that streaked across her pale face. She was a mess, with a cut over her lip and one under her eye. Paul had hit her hard; she already had a bruise forming over her cheekbone. She sat down and cradled her head in her sore hands. She hadn’t meant to lose her temper like that, to make a spectacle of her rage once again . . . She knew how they felt, 27 and the rest of them, they all hated her. They tolerated her because Jared loved her. She couldn’t blame them. She was the drill sergeant they’d never asked for. Couldn’t they tell that she did it all for them? That she had forsaken any sort of weakness to be the best, to be the chosen one, the champion who would
keep them alive?

  I am what they made me to be . . . It wasn’t her fault. The Order and her mentors had designed her to perfection. She and Jared were their elite soldiers—­they were what they were supposed to be. Why did it bother the others so much? And why is it bothering me so much? I’m the archetype—­I am what they wanted. I will keep the rest of them alive out there.

  She wasn’t used to second-­guessing herself . . . or feeling self-­conscious. She had long ago embraced the title of martinet, forsaking any childhood delusions of protection and chivalry, of fear or weakness. If she was going to be an Academy soldier then she was going to be the best. Jared wouldn’t settle for anything less and neither would she.

  This was all because of Tandy. The death had rattled her too greatly, and she knew that she needed to move on, to let this go . . . And yet, it seemed an impossible task. She had experienced loss before but never of this caliber. She couldn’t imagine what Kenny was feeling.

  How could you survive losing the one you loved?

  Sloan thought about the next Betrothal Calling—­it would be soon. How could she go and watch all the pairings that would occur, or more importantly, the ones that wouldn’t? Her own Betrothal Calling had been one of the greatest nights of her life—­everything she had worked so hard for had been given to her that night when it was confirmed that she and Jared were truly meant to be. Tandy had deserved a moment like that.

  Sloan stepped out of the shower to find Jared standing there, holding out a towel. He shook his head at her, eyeing up her face. She grabbed the towel from him and wrapped it tightly around herself. He took her hand and pulled her to him, inspecting her face closer.

  “I could kill Paul for doing this to you.”

  “If you were my betrothed I wouldn’t let someone mess up your face like that . . .” Sloan shook her head. Why am I so fixated on what Elijah said?

  She pulled away from him, moving into the bedroom. He followed her closely. “I will have him running 10 k’s a day for this.”

  Sloan glanced back at him over her shoulder. “He’s got a broken shoulder, Jared.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, a broken shoulder, not a broken leg.”

  Sloan opened her dresser drawer, pulling out a fresh uniform. “We need to get a training session in this week. I should have never been blindsided like that.”

  “You can take it easy for a few days; you took a big hit.”

  Sloan spun on him, raising her brow questioningly. “From Paul. I’m fine.”

  If I am so fine, why are my hands shaking?

  “You lost your temper today, Sloan. You went full fighter-­mode and you can’t do that with 27.”

  Sloan shook her head with annoyance. “You have got to stop babying them, Jared.”

  He sat on the bed, letting her continue to get ready. “I’m not babying them. I just see them for what they are.”

  Sloan dried her body off and began to dress, knowing they needed to get to class soon.

  “And what’s that?”

  “Students.”

  She pulled her trousers up, fumbling with the zip. “They are soldiers.”

  “No, you’re a soldier.”

  She studied him hard—­knowing his sentiment was meant to be a compliment. But then why does it sound like I’m being singled out? You’re the same as me.

  Being a soldier was her identity—­she was the best because she worked the hardest. Being a soldier wasn’t only all she knew, it was all she had been made to be, all she had ever known how to be—­it was what defined her as Jared’s perfect partner. If he was the best he had to be with the best.

  She shook her head, clearing her mind. “Well, they need to work harder. We need more sessions with them.”

  Jared nodded. “I agree. I wouldn’t be surprised if Paul got pulled up for Review for today’s debacle.”

  Sloan froze. She imagined Paul going to Review—­any failure to excel could land you in Review, where the Order could give you a warning or sentence you to Dismissal. She imagined Paul being Dismissed. Like Luke Maxwell had been.

  Like Tandy.

  “No . . . we can’t lose anyone else to them.”

  Jared arched a brow at her. “Them?”

  “I mean the Order.”

  “There is no them. It’s all of us—­Academy and Order—­together as one.”

  “I know that,” she answered. You know I know that.

  He stood, nearing her. “I’m going to hop in the shower and then we need to get back to class.”

  “Okay.” She nodded.

  He smiled and stripped his shirt off. Sloan couldn’t pinpoint the day Jared had changed, when his small frame had been reshaped into the body of a man—­which was surprising, since she had never taken her eyes off him.

  “Jared, one more thing.”

  He nodded, waiting.

  “Why did Elijah Daniels intervene in my fight today? Do you know him?”

  His face hardened under her words and she could see his fingers twitching. Jared shared her temper and she looked out for his tells as keenly as he did for hers.

  What is making you so mad?

  “Let me deal with that, Sloan.”

  “Jare—­”

  But he cut her off. “You’re done with Elijah Daniels, okay?”

  It wasn’t really a question. His words were a command. She said nothing, but they both knew her silence was not a mark of subservience. Slowly, he smiled and walked past her, stepping into their bathroom.

  Sloan listened to the pour of the shower and sat on the bed, trying to make sense of Jared’s quick attitude change and evasiveness. What had happened between him and Elijah that she didn’t know about?

  As a ­couple, they had experienced jealousy before—­she had always known that half the Academy dreamed of being paired with Jared Dawson. But Sloan had also always known, in her heart, that she was the only one for him. No one else would be able to hear the difference in his voice, the one that revealed that even when his words sounded like a request they were actually an order. No one else could calm his temper, as he alone, in turn, could calm hers. No one else could read his thoughts, could think like him, strategize like him and work as hard as him. She was his perfect partner—­and nothing in life brought her more joy.

  Sloan reached into her bedside dresser drawer and pulled out the small worn photograph that she kept in there. It had been taken on the night of her Betrothal Calling. Sloan was wearing her white dress, Tandy’s bronzed arms locked around her.

  Love is vulnerability.

  She wouldn’t be in this much pain if she hadn’t loved her friend so greatly. It was odd, Sloan thought, that when they spent their entire lives training to become the perfect soldiers, they hadn’t figured out how to stop loving, how to stop wanting . . . Sloan knew now that she only had one remaining weakness—­only one remaining vulnerability. She needed him to be the strongest, the fastest; she needed him to be the best—­to ensure he never got hurt, because if Jared got cut, Sloan bled.

  He stepped back into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Are you ready?”

  Sloan thought about the question, tossing the photograph back into the drawer. She eyed him from head to toe. They were truly in love and it weakened them both. It’s why they trained so hard . . . They were responsible for their lives because they both knew that if one of them died out there—­it would kill the other.

  “Yes, I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Sloan rolled over, her arm falling on the pillow beside her. She rubbed her tired eyes, and instantly remembered her injury. The pain helped her wake up. Jared was already gone. He was always awake first, always the first one prepared.

  It had been three days since the morning of Tandy’s death, since she had broken Paul’s shoulder. She rolled out of bed and made her way to the bat
hroom. Brushing her teeth, she admired Paul’s handiwork. She looked awful. The Infirmary could take care of the injury but it was an unspoken rule that you wore your bruises with pride.

  She thought back to the last time she had donned such a bruise—­her fight with Joshua Bleak. It had taken six months of intensive training before Sloan had felt ready to challenge him again, and her body during that time had been a giant walking bruise. Yet, it had been worth it, just for the moment when she had shoved him, publically challenging him to give it his best shot. And he had. He had broken two of her fingers, sprained her ankle and torn muscles throughout her body.

  But she had won.

  Because for all the pain he had once again put her through—­she had put him in the Infirmary with three broken bones and a concussion. Jared had asked her what she had been thinking by challenging Bleak again. “I’m letting them all know they can’t hurt us.”

  He had kissed her bruises, had beamed with pride. “That’s why you’re my girl.”

  Sloan washed her face softly, thinking about what she would say to Paul. He had been in the Infirmary since their fight, but she knew he would be at the table this morning. Ultimately, she decided she wasn’t going to apologize, whether she had lost her temper or not. She would try to use their altercation as a way to motivate him and the rest of 27.

  Sloan walked to the pod and waited for the doors to open. She would tell him that he did a good job of finally defending himself. The doors opened and revealed three young girls sitting on the white seat. She stepped inside and, promptly, the girls stood and saluted. When she sat, they sat.

  “Morning, girls.” She watched as they eyed her face, fearful and speculative.

  The small brunette leaned past her friends to see Sloan better. “You’re Jared Dawson’s girlfriend, right?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Radcliffe,” she answered sternly. In Sloan’s world, she had only ever wanted one thing—­Jared. To be with the best, you had to be the best. So she became that. But somewhere along the way her natural abilities and excessive training had made her more than “Jared Dawson’s girlfriend”—­they had made her elite, they had made her the pinnacle of Academy excellence. They made me what I am.