Good head?
“Either that or she’s fucking the king,” Dusty added, his voice fading as they ran.
They thought I?—
“Gah.” I gagged and shoved open the doors before I could puke again at the thought.
Inside, the air warmed, filled with shouting, slapping skin, and clanking metal—a cacophony of violence and skill. I walked over to the Tormentors, keeping my eyes trained on Oliver. He glanced up from his weights but quickly looked away, offering me nothing—not a nod, not a word.
Fine.
After strength training, before Ni led Oliver to their station, my gaze flicked to her neck. Her red gash still gaped and shone with mucus, but there was no sign of black infection. Maybe the doors had shown what Ni’s neck used to look like before it started healing. But what purpose did it serve to show me the past? Unless the image had been meant for Lucifer and his judgment.
A javelin flew through the air toward me, startling me out of my thoughts. I caught it two-handed and found Ichi gripping her own with her dainty hands. I opened my mouth about to question her, and in one fluid movement, she lifted her javelin, took a few running steps, then threw it.
The javelin sliced through the air and slammed into a bull’s-eye seventy meters away.
I gaped at her.
I think I had a girl crush.
I shouldn’t be surprised by her ferocity. But Ichi stood at least three inches shorter than me, with a small physique and solemn gaze. She didn’t have a hardened personality, nor a weak one—just a quiet, balanced presence.
What really made me second-guess her strength, despite countless training days, was her composed and respectful demeanor. Nothing about this military was soft-spoken or polite. Most of them were brutal, self-serving asses stronger than me.
But that didn’t make Ichi lessor. If anything, the way she carried herself was a testament to her resilience and power. I was sure she’d been mocked and mistreated by the other squads as she rose through the ranks.
“Your turn.” She nodded to me, a small smile softening her half-burned face.
I smiled back, unable to hide my awe. No one smiled around here—unless I counted the sneers or ignored the mockery behind them. Ichi was different. And I respected her more for it.
Focusing through the glare of sunlight, I mimicked her movements, hoping to impress her, only to stumble as I threw. The spear dropped halfway to the target, skidding across the ground.
When did it get so bright in here?
Ichi gestured at another javelin. “Again. Keep your grip firm, your core tight, and shift your weight to your front foot as you release—then maintain your balance during the recovery.”
I threw again with her guidance and missed. She politely critiqued my form, then said, “Again.”
That was Ichi’s favorite word. She used it at least a hundred more times, only stopping when I finally nicked the target.
She’d get along well with my father.
“Good. Let’s move on to daggers.”
Throwing daggers would be easier. Or so I assumed.
It wasn’t. Even though the target was closer and the weight lighter, I struggled. And my stomach still churned with nausea.
Ichi showed me over and over what to do, and I still couldn’t get it right. Frustrated, I dug my nails into my palms when the dagger fell short.
“This isn’t working!”
Hands pressed against my stomach and back, straightening my spine. I knew who it was the moment I smelled the spicy scent of clove and balsam and felt the brush of shadow on my forehead.
The general brought his lips to my ear. “Maybe because you have a concussion, Hellion. Mind telling me what happened?” he whispered, his body rigid behind me.
“I fell.”
