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Which had been my life’s mission to achieve.
But he kept edging closer, expression severe. “You have lied to your superiors a total of forty-seven times in the last decade in an attempt to cover for fellow students' crimes. Three times, directly to my face.”
So close I could sense the oddest low-pitched vibration coming from his chest, he narrowed his eyes, continuing, “You’ve received numerous punishments, yet not one of them has altered this insubordinate behavior.”
Having one’s loyalty questioned was concerning, especially six weeks from freedom. “Sir, I have not been written up in two years.”
“What makes you think that’s true?”
If he’d wanted to begin this assessment by twisting me into knots of anxiety, he’d accomplished his goal with an artful perfection. Nervous, I asked, “Is there a disciplinary issue I am unaware of, sir?”
He stepped even closer, closer than any instructor ever dared stand unless offering instruction in combat. Close enough I could feel the heat of his body warming the air between us.
I was still struggling to determine what infraction might have been reported, adding up every rule I had knowingly broken, terrified my stash of contraband—the dress, magazines, and lipstick—had been discovered and confiscated without my knowing.
If he knew of those things, there would be no graduation. I would be killed.
Could he read the guilt in my expression? Was that why he stared?
Maybe this was a test all graduates had to endure. One final, unbearable interrogation by a madman.
That thought was the only thing that kept me from flinching when General Cyderial’s hands slowly reached for my throat.
3
Startled, I froze. A shocked inhale stuck in my chest.
He was so close I could feel his breath upon my cheek.
Yet it seemed General Cyderial was not intent on causing bodily harm. A few tugs at the fabric of my collar, and it was clear this was nothing more than a standard dress uniform inspection—pulling at bits and bobs to assure I donned the uniform exactly as every last recruit had been trained to.
It should not have been so thoroughly unsettling, except that no grown manin my entire lifehad ever touched me before. Not a single, mated male professor. Not one male arms instructor. Even hand-to-hand combat was taught solely by women.
Not even an armed watcher had dared, even if I’d reached a point of reprimand. Instead, I had always been ordered to follow, and I had always obeyed.
Corporal punishment for females was meted out by a woman.
And here I was, about to graduate, and a man was touching me for the first time.
Flipping the hem of my jacket to check my belt, inspecting if my trousers sat exactly as they should upon my hips, he touched. Liberal in his exploration, only to find my seams were in place, everything starched and crisp.
Hem dropped, inspection of my rank and various pins on my chest continued.
Still, I did not breathe.
Focused eyes ran over every possible angle. His touch fiddled with bits of my uniform, and it felt as if he were performing an act deeply forbidden.
A taboo in the tilt of polished brass buttons that held the ugly black jacket in place, a scandal in the way his attention lingered on my shape.
He was breaking the rules.
Rules that had gotten more than one of my peers killed.
Was his hand lingering on my lapel longer than it was supposed to? Was this some sort of test?
Unlike the boys in the academy, this man would not be hanged for accidentally brushing against me as he circled my frame. Which he did, moving to the back of my body to continue his inspection.
It was almost intimate when his palms brushed unseen lint from my back. Warming how big his hands felt when he tested the fit of my coat where it cinched in tight at my waist.
