If I don’t get free, I’m dead.
I bring up my left leg and kick as soon as I’m close enough, catching him in the jaw, but he doesn’t let go. Tenacious bastard.
A crunch sounds with my next kick, breaking his nose. Blood flies, but he shakes it off, lurching upward and rolling onto me, pinning me to the floor with his incomprehensible weight.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I swing out with my knife, but he catches my right hand, pinning my wrist to the ground. Then he wraps his other hand around my throat and squeezes.
“Fucking die, already,” he seethes, his voice blending into the ringing in my ears as he lowers his face to mine.
There’s no air as his grip tightens on my windpipe.
“Secrets die with the people who keep them,” he whispers, bringing his nose an inch from mine. His eyes are light brown but rimmed in red as though he’s on some kind of drug.
Aetos.
Fear floods my mind, breaking past my shields, but it’s not mine.
I can’t focus on Tairn’s fear. That way lies shock and death.
And I’m not about to die under some no-name first-year.
My vision tunnels as I grab one of the daggers sheathed along my ribs with my free left hand, draw quickly, and plunge the blade into the giant’s back, angling right where Xaden taught me. His kidney. Once. Twice. Thrice. I lose count as I stab over and over and over, until the grip on my throat releases, until the first-year sags on top of me.
He’s dead weight.
My lungs fight to expand as I put the last of my strength into shoving him off of me. He’s heavier than an ox, but I manage to push him sideways enough to slide out from under him.
Air—beautiful, precious air—fills my chest, and I gasp for it, breathing past the fire in my throat, and stare up at the beams of the ceiling. Pain. My entire body is nothing but pain.
“Violet?” Dain’s voice shakes as he crouches beside me. “Are you all right?”
Secrets die with the people who keep them.
No, I’m not all right. His father just tried to have me assassinated.
I force myself to the familiar headspace beyond the pain and roll to my hands and knees. Nausea sweeps through me in waves, and I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth until I can push it back down.
“Say something,” Dain begs in a frantic whisper.
I walk back on my hands until I’m kneeling, then arch my neck, wincing as I pull breath after breath.
“Vi—” He stands and offers me a hand, and the worry in his familiar eyes—
Fuck no.
I throw all my energy into my shields.
“Don’t. Touch. Me,” I grind out, my voice like sandpaper, and stand slowly, more than aware of the number of eyes on me. My head spins, but I fight the dizziness as I retrieve all five of my daggers. Everyone in the nearby area watches as I bend over and use the dead first-year’s uniform to wipe the blood off my blades before sheathing them.
The fear flooding my pathways changes to relief.
“I’m all right,” I tell Tairn and Andarna.
“Matthias and Henrick, take the bodies,” Dain orders. At least I think it’s him. The ringing in my ears muffles everything farther than twelve inches away.
Emetterio appears before me. “May I touch you?” he asks.
Clearly, I made that demand of Dain rather loudly.
I nod, making sure my shields are in place, and Emetterio grasps my face, searching my eyes. He blocks the light, then lifts his hand. A fresh wave of nausea churns in my stomach.
“You’re concussed. Want to skip the rest of the session?” He drops his hand from my face and holds me steady by gripping my arms when I sway.
“No.” I’m not leaving assessment day the same way I did last year.
“I’ve got her,” Imogen says, taking my elbow.
Emetterio’s mouth purses, his dark eyes narrowing.
“I’m not going to try and kill her this year. Promise.” She draws me to her side but doesn’t hold on to me, just lets me lean a little.
Fine, a lot.
“You were just strangled, Cadet Sorrengail,” Emetterio reminds me.
“Not the first time,” I respond, the razor blades in my throat making my voice raspy. “I’ll heal. I’m staying.”
He sighs but eventually nods and heads back to his place at the head of the mat, picking up the clipboard he’d apparently dropped.
“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.