by R. H. Scott
She barely noticed the towel being wrapped around her, just as she barely gauged that it was Elijah, covering her up as he pulled her into his lap. He leaned against the tub, tucking her face under his chin. She cried until the pain became normal, until this agony became a baseline, until she was certain it would take a bullet in the chest to feel anything worse. She cried until she fell asleep, dreaming of a world where normal didn’t hurt so much.
When Sloan finally woke, she was cold. She had a damp towel curled tightly around her, and wet hair framed her face. She sat up quickly and then remembered she was in no hurry to live this day. She was not in her living quarters. She was not with Jared. She was the girl who had made a scene at Fight Night, the girl who had been traded by the Order, the girl whose private life had been made a spectacle of. Out of everything—angering the Order, terrifying Maya, the humiliation of her life being put on display for all her peers—she could only think of Jared. She took a deep breath and was amazed that, despite all her certainties of the contrary, her body knew how to live on without him there.
She stood up slowly, readjusting her towel. She glanced into the bathroom; Elijah had cleaned up most of her wreckage. She sighed heavily, wondering if he had now been able to see what losing Jared had done to her. She walked away, stepping into the living quarters. The milky daylight streaked into the room—it was still early. Elijah was asleep on the sofa—he looked awful. Bruises and slashes streaked his face. His hands, resting peacefully above welts on his chest, were cut and shaded dark green and blue. His ribs had extended into purple mounds and he still had a streak of blood across his temple. Was that his blood—or Jared’s?
As if he could sense her, he woke up, blinking slowly. He had a black eye. He sat up too quickly and then jolted to a halt, grimacing. “That was uncomfortable,” he sighed, padding his abdomen with his hands.
She watched him carefully, lowering herself into a seat opposite him. “It looks pretty bad.”
He shot her a critical look. “Yeah, your hands look as bad as my mirror feels.” She shied at his words—that had been the second time Elijah Daniels had held her as she broke. He stood slowly, physically assessing his wounds, running his fingertips over his bruises and cuts. “I’m sorry you slept in a towel—I didn’t want to wake you once you were out.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay . . . Thanks for sleeping out here.” She glanced at the too-small sofa.
“I had no intentions of sleeping anywhere else.”
They stared at one another in awkward silence. They had achieved what was necessary—he was alive—but Sloan hadn’t anticipated that in keeping him alive she would end up feeling like she were dying.
He ran a hand through his dark locks. “Look, Sloan, I didn’t want to hurt anyone—” he began, but Sloan snorted, cutting him off curtly.
“Well, you failed then.”
“Sloan,” he sighed.
She shook her head at him. “I get it, Elijah. The Order should have told me about our pairing from the beginning, I would have chosen Jared and you could have been rematched. I get that they are responsible for all of this. But you could have done things differently, you could have insisted on a new pairing instead of coming after me—Jared might have tried to kill you, but you didn’t give him much choice . . . Nothing changes the fact that we all got hurt.”
He nodded at her slowly. There was nothing to say. The Order had set all of this into motion by bending the rules and by pitting Elijah and Jared against one another.
Elijah shifted on his feet anxiously. “It had to be you, Sloan. You’re the only one— Never mind.” He shook his head. “I’m just going to go shower.”
She didn’t know where he was going with that train of thought, and she didn’t care. She got it—he was obsessed with her. She had run out of ways to tell him those feelings would never be reciprocated. She watched him make his way to the bathroom. She didn’t understand how her life had been diminished to such a state—she had played no role in this and yet she was the one forced to suffer the consequences of others’ decisions. The humming of the pod doors alerted her, and she stood, spinning around.
Stepping into the room with a confident stride was Marshal Romani—the man who had ruined her life. The man who could control whether she lived or died each day. The man she had greatly angered last night.
She stood to attention, saluting him swiftly. “Marshal, sir.”
He looked around the room, he let his gaze slowly trail over her, and with slow steps, he approached her. “At ease, Lieutenant.”
He took a deep breath, keeping his dark eyes locked on her. “You made quite the scene last night.”
Sloan stood in silence. He had diminished the quality of her life—in turn she had diminished the reach of his power. She held his gaze and realized the difference in their relationship now. Thanks to the Order she had nothing left to lose, but they stood to lose a great deal. And last night marked her first move against them—she wouldn’t suffer the consequences of their actions alone.
“To be frank, Lieutenant, I do not appreciate your grandstanding. In the future, do not use the ring as a podium to lecture on the morality of Dismissals.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”
His mouth pulled into a tight smile. “I must say, I was very surprised by last night’s outcome. Captain Dawson hasn’t lost a fight in so many years, and yet, when it comes to fighting to keep you, he somehow loses.”
It took everything Sloan had to remain calm. How dare you? she thought, grinding her teeth back and forth.
“I wonder if he had reason to sense that your pairing to Captain Daniels was more than just a technical error,” he pressed.
He was provoking her—pushing her into anger. Sloan took a slow deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. But before she could say anything, Elijah’s voice had rung out.
“That water is great, babe!”
Romani raised an eyebrow at her, his smile pulling smugly across his face. She felt her cheeks light up.
Why the hell did he just call me babe?
Romani tapped his foot on the ground with amusement. “Well, that answers that.”
She wanted to kill him—right after she killed Elijah.
“Apologies, Marshal, sir.” Elijah’s voice turned her around. He stood in the room, a towel hanging precariously around his hips, water trailing down his body, his muscles tensed as he stood upright to salute.
Romani nodded to him. “At ease, Captain. Congratulations on your newfound championship and on your . . . Winnings.” He smiled, nodding in Sloan’s direction.
He refocused on Sloan. “I am sending you two on leave—several days in the forest. Your absence will give Jared and the Academy an opportunity to calm down—let the dust settle, so to speak.”
“Thank you, sir.” Elijah nodded, but Sloan remained silent. Despite Jared’s losing a championship, Romani still had such interest in him.
How much does that have to do with the people they were forced to fight for?
Romani eyed them both over slowly. “Leave within the hour.” With his final words, he turned and dialed a pod. They saluted as he exited, and remained staring at the closed doors long after he had left.
“This is perfect . . .”
At Elijah’s voice Sloan spun on him, still reeling. “Don’t you ever call me babe—” she began, but before she could finish, he had grabbed her arm, forcefully pulling her into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, jerking her arm free as he pushed her towards the shower. He didn’t answer, though—he just fiddled with the taps until the loud pour of water filled the room.
She shoved him away. “I am not showering with you.”
He looked from the shower to her, perplexed. “Oh, no, that’s not what I meant—I mean, feel free to show
er with me whenever, but that’s not why I dragged you in here . . .” he mumbled. Clearly being flustered didn’t shake his ingrained sense of confidence.
Sloan crossed her arms over her chest. “Then what is going on?”
He grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “Shh . . . keep your voice down.”
She struggled to pull free from him, his grip firmer—not hurting her, but not letting go either. “What is your problem, Daniels?”
He pushed her closer to the shower water, leaning into her. What is he doing? She leaned away from him, pulling out of his grip.
“Stop fidgeting, Sloan!” he ordered, seizing her with both hands.
She froze, the serious gaze in his bright eyes stilling her. He finally loosened his grip, once again leaning towards her.
Don’t you dare kiss me again, she thought, turning her face from him. He brought his mouth to her cheek.
“They might be listening,” he whispered.
She didn’t understand what he was saying—she didn’t know who they were—but the ominous inference sent shivers through her. She lifted her face slowly, holding his stare. His green eyes were dark, serious.
“Pack your bags and I will explain everything later,” he instructed quietly.
He released her, stepping to the side, and left the bathroom.
He was clearly neurotic—paranoid—a lunatic. What have I gotten myself into by saving his life?
She turned the taps off and hesitantly stepped into the bedroom. Elijah had pulled civilian clothes on, jeans and a T-shirt. He was furiously shoving clothes into a duffel bag. She kept her distance, walking close to the wall to get to her drawers. It took her a minute to find her rucksack. She tossed clothes to wear aside and began to pack. She slipped in to jeans underneath her towel, keeping her back turned to Elijah when she had to finally let the towel fall away. She clasped her bra and pulled a shirt on, turning around quickly to continue packing. She caught Elijah’s eyes, watching her longingly.
He immediately looked away. “Sorry.”
She eyed him up, unnerved by his erratic behavior. His longing for her already filled her with discomfort—she would not tolerate that on top of this crazy-person behavior. She continued to get ready, contemplating how she would handle complete isolation in the woods with him.
Sloan apprehensively followed Elijah out onto the garage platform. The large concrete area was filled with vehicles—driverless automobiles that had their destinations preprogrammed daily by the techs. Jared had once told her that approximately 65 percent of the island had been GPS mapped. The coordinates were recorded and routed to the vehicles, which would operate on autopilot without a driver.
She glanced past the vehicles to the hover bikes—road motorcycles without wheels, operated through rapid air recycling. Further off in the distance were the hangars, where the Skyshells were kept. The latest in aero-tech, the machines were paneled in reflective glass, and unlike historical aircraft, these had no wings, but instead a sole top propeller and parallel side turbines. She envied the aviation students—they got to be out here all the time, learning how to fly.
They were rarely used as pawns for the Order’s amusement . . . she thought bitterly.
Elijah walked across the garage with easy confidence, comfortable navigating the engine parts and oil slicks. She followed him as he expertly weaved through the metal chaos and made his way to a back office. He rapped on the door, calling out, “Donny!”
After a moment, a young, redheaded guy with a broad smile and big eyes appeared. He pulled Elijah into a big hug. “How are you, man? Missing us already?”
Elijah clapped him on the back. “Miss it every day, man, I really do.”
Had Elijah been in the aviation program? Sloan wondered how much more she didn’t know about this person she now had to share a life with.
Donny grabbed Elijah’s chin. “Look at your face! You really fought tooth and nail last night!”
A look from Elijah warned Donny off the topic but it didn’t stop Sloan from glaring at the young man, forcing him to step back awkwardly. Seeming to remember himself, Donny waved them into his cramped office. Screws, nails, oilcans and rubber were scattered across the room. Tires were piled on top of one another in the corner, and a mess of paperwork covered the desk. Donny offered her a rueful smile.
Sensing the awkwardness, Elijah spoke. “Sorry! Donny, this is Lieutenant Sloan Radcliffe. My betrothed.” He smiled. Sloan pursed her lips at the introduction, uncomfortable with his words. She shook Donny’s hand, nodding a hello.
“She’s even more beautiful up close—I can see why you would leave this place!” He laughed, and despite his infectious kindness, Sloan didn’t appreciate being spoken about that way.
Cool it; don’t waste your energy. She urged herself to remain calm.
Elijah broke the silence. “Have you been told we’re off on excursion?”
Donny jumped frantically, tearing his eyes from Sloan. “Oh, yeah—of course! They radioed up an hour ago. I will take you out to her.” He shuffled out of the room, Elijah and Sloan in tow.
She stared daggers at her betrothed but he ignored her. The only thing keeping Sloan from getting out of here was her knowledge that she had no choice in being here . . . and, to a degree, some curiosity.
They followed Donny around a series of modified automobiles, coming up to a dark grey terrain vehicle. These were modifications of cars from long past, with overhauled engines that were redesigned to burn hybridized fuel, ensuring the burning process was silent and powerful. No vehicles, neither terrain nor aviation, moved faster than those designed by the Academy.
“This is her, similar to the one we built last summer”—Donny smiled, tapping the hood—“with a few minor adjustments.” The grey metal formed a rectangular vehicle, built to fit four passengers, and yet it was extremely compact—if it didn’t rest on six tires it would likely only stand three feet off the ground.
Elijah ran his hand over the doors. “Beautiful,” he commented. He opened the door with a single push mechanism. Sloan walked around the vehicle, noting the two hover bikes latched to the back. She came back around to see Elijah hauling their bags into the backseat. He leaned back and looked at his friend. “Is autopilot off?”
Donny nodded. “Yeah. If you want to drive her, go for it.”
“And everything else?” Elijah asked, lowering his voice.
“The radio is all good, man,” Donny answered quietly. “Go have fun.” Elijah smiled back, but looked around them cautiously. Sloan didn’t understand what he was looking for or what they were talking about—she was beginning to feel genuinely concerned.
Elijah pulled Donny into another hug but she just offered him a quick goodbye before making her way to the passenger side. She pushed the metal door and it gave way, swinging open. She got inside and looked around the interior. The grey panel dashboard held multiple switches, a GPS screen and a holographic image of the internal engines, lit up against the base of the windscreen. On the driver’s side, a hand-sized silver disc rested on a joystick—the steering wheel.
Elijah jumped into the vehicle and placed his hand firmly on the disc. A light scanned his biometrics and the engine whirred on, the holograph lighting up the display of igniting pistons. He turned his hand on the disc and pushed down with his palm, jolting the vehicle into a quick, controlled reverse. Sloan watched him press the disc forward, zooming away from the garage.
“How do you know how to drive?” she asked, eyeing his every movement.
He shot her an amused look. “Know how to drive? I know how to build one of these babies!” He laughed as he directed them towards the gate. She had never learned how to drive since it wasn’t necessary for her—she was a martial expert, an on-foot militant.
Sloan realized she was more than a little jealous . . .
&nbs
p; Gate 03 was constructed of ten-foot-tall chain-link wire—a rudimentary boundary that merely served to show where the real fence was: a current of electricity that ran around the Academy, so powerful that anyone who crossed it without a chip scan—or preapproval to lower the barrier—could die.
Elijah lowered the windows as the gate sentry appeared, a silver scanner bracelet in hand. “Identification,” the man barked. Sloan reached through the window, offering her arm out. The guard ran the bracelet over her hand, up her forearm, removing it once it flashed green. He walked around and scanned Elijah. “We expect you back within three days.”
“Of course,” Elijah said.
The guard grunted, but the gate pulled to the side. Without any hesitation, Elijah zoomed off, flying onto the tarmac. As he flew down the road he began to press on the dash, fiddling until a compartment flipped open. He rummaged through it until he pulled out a small black serial drive. He pushed the drive into a port behind the steering disc. The drives stored files, and Sloan half expected music to begin playing. Instead, a deafening screech pierced her ears.
“What the hell was that?” she shrieked as the noise ended.
“That’s how we know the drive is working,” he explained, slowing down the vehicle, seemingly beginning to relax.
Sloan eyed him warily. “Working how?”
He glanced at her, an anxious glimmer in his eyes. He chewed his lip, flicking his gaze between her and the road.
“Elijah—tell me what’s going on,” she ordered. She wouldn’t live with any more secrets.
He took a quick deep breath. “It’s a signal jammer . . . anyone who taps into this car’s radio won’t be able to hear what we say.”
Sloan’s jaw dropped, thinking back to the start of his peculiar behavior this morning. “You’re actually insane.”
Somehow, he kept his eyes on the road, but she could see a flush crawling up his neck. He was legitimately unstable—and she was now stuck with him. “Elijah, first this morning, now this—no one is listening to us.”
