“Fine.” I exhale, closing my eyes. “Let me try again.”
After I harness the gold, I try to follow Hawkins’s advice. I let that command—pick up the knife—drift like a stream, guiding it along rather than just sending it. As I repeat the words, my eyelids flutter open in time to see Hawkins closing his fingers around the ivory handle. Excitement sparks in my stomach.
“Pick it up.”
Slowly, he lifts the knife. This time, there’s no twitching. Nojerking. His movements are deliberate, his hand like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings, hovering in the air.
“Do not let me put it down,” he mutters to me, and I can see the strain on his face. His own mind is trying to resist me.
“Keep holding it up.”
The knife remains suspended in the air, while the connection between our minds continues to pulse, gold dust swirling in my vision as I struggle to keep that current alive.
“Keep holding it up,” I repeat when his hand begins to lower.
I’m too late. I lose my hold on him, and the knife clatters out of his grip.
“Well done,” Hawkins tells me, and it’s almost pathetic how much that measly compliment means to me.
The rain isn’t letting up, so Xavier and I skip our walk and go to the gym instead. Yet another activity I’ve added to my new routine. Beating the hell out of something helps me let out my frustration over not talking to Cross.
My training shoes squeak on the gymnasium floor as I lunge at Xavier, swinging at his smug, annoying face. He’s been besting me on the mats for the past hour, proving why Cross chose him to train Silver Block’s recruits. Xavier canfight.
He grins as he dodges my uppercut, dancing away on light feet. “I don’t remember you being this slow in the Program. What’s wrong, Darlington? You forget how to move?”
I swipe at the sweat dripping from my forehead and strike again, aiming for his midsection, but he sidesteps me and catches my wrist, twisting it with just enough force to make me curse in pain. I manage to jerk my arm free.
“Careful,” he mocks. “You might pull a muscle.”
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” drawls another voice.
We stop fighting, our gazes shifting across the room to where Henley, Saint, and Mako just entered the gym.
Xavier glances at the newcomers with a mocking smirk. “You offering?”
Henley eyes him for a second, then shrugs and says, “Sure. Why not.” He strips off his shirt, leaving him in nothing but black training pants.
Mako hoots in delight. “Oh, I’mallabout this.”
Xavier gives me a gracious pat on the arm. “You’re excused, sweetling.”
“Fuck off.” But I’m grinning as I step off the mats and head toward the benches where I left my aluminum water bottle.
I twist off the cap, taking a deep swig as I watch Xavier and Henley begin to circle each other. They’re both tall and broad. Solid muscle.
Mako sidles up to me. “Ten credits on Henley.”
“We don’t use credits at the Dagger,” I remind him. Everything here is free for consumption.
Saint heads for one of the punching bags and begins to tape up his hands. He’s quiet, as always, but watching intently as his friend prepares to spar with the alleged enemy.
Xavier makes the first move, striking fast. His movements are clean and controlled. Henley is more fluid. He’s deceptively lazy, looking like he’s not taking it seriously at all before unleashing a series of jabs that has Xavier kicking into defense mode.
Their muscles shift under their skin, gleaming with power. They’re evenly matched, both in skill and in the amount of shit talk that leaves their mouths.
Henley falls back and raises both forearms, taunting again. Almost like a dance.
“You gonna throw a punch, or you just gonna stand there and look pretty?” Xavier asks. His voice is laced with amusement.
