Page 49 of Silver Elite

Cross leans in and mutters something none of us can hear. But hisbrother’s dark eyes flare. Then he slaps the younger guy’s shoulder—not good-naturedly, but in warning—and walks out of the room.

Jaw coiled tight, Roe stands there, fuming at whatever was muttered in his ear, until Xavier Ford steps forward and barks for him to join the group.

—

I spend most of the morning meal sneaking glances at the General’s bastard. He seems close with Anson, which is already cause for alarm. But even if he weren’t friendly with the creepiest guy in our cell, I would have clocked him as dangerous. The energy he gives off makes every hair on my body stand on end.

According to my source, our first class is a weapons assessment. We find ourselves in a dimly lit shooting range, where the metallic tang of gun oil hangs heavy in the air. Rows of targets line the far wall, and I can’t stop the twinge of anticipation in my gut.

Everyone shuffles into formation. I take my place among them, trying to blend in, trying not to stand out.

Ford is about to get us started when Cross enters the range. I hate how my gaze is instantly drawn to him. He joins his lieutenant, and together they make an undeniably imposing pair. Both tall and broad, their gazes shrewd, their body language promising everyone around them that they can and will kill in a heartbeat if necessary.

I notice Ivy watching Cross, too. Her gaze doesn’t convey blatant longing, but it follows his every action, however minute. Even the way he pushes a lock of hair away from his forehead earns Ivy’s intense scrutiny.

“Let’s go. Arm up,” Ford tells us, while Cross checks something on his tablet.

One by one, recruits step up, grabbing a rifle from the rack.

When it’s my turn, Cross lifts his head and glances at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “We’re in luck today, everyone,” he announces. “We have a crack shot in our midst.”

“Hardly,” I say.

I keep my expression neutral, but I hear his voice in my head,telling me he’d seen the shot that saved Rachel’s son. If my goal is to not draw attention to myself, then I can’t be making shots like that today.

“Darlington, why don’t you start us off?” Ford is clearly enjoying my discomfort.

I suppress a grimace and step forward.

“This should be fun,” drawls Roe. I notice that, like Ivy’s, his eyes never stray too far from Cross.

As the targets slide into place downrange, I raise the rifle to my shoulder, letting my fingers dance lightly over the familiar contours of the grip. I take aim, squinting down the sight. My finger hovers over the trigger, but instead of focusing on the bull’s-eye, I let my gaze wander, deliberately aiming slightly off center.

“Any day now,” Ford mocks.

The shot rings out, my bullet striking the edge of the target with a dull thud.

“I believe that’s what they call anticlimactic,” Roe says, drawing some chuckles.

Ford’s eyebrows lift in amusement. “Again.”

Whispers ripple through the class as I fire, intentionally missing my mark for a second time. I look over to see Kess and Ivy snickering.

Cross is watching me intently. This time it’s he who says, “Again.”

I fire again. Miss again.

The laughter of my “fellows” and Ford’s widening smirk grate, but I maintain the façade of incompetence. The bull’s-eye never once sees lead. With each shot, I aim wide, my bullets scattering across the target in a haphazard pattern. Sweat beads on my forehead as I fight my natural instincts.

Being bad at something ishard.

“Well, shit,” Ford remarks. “You’re pitiful, sweetling.”

Kess snorts. Loudly.

The corners of my mouth twitch with the urge to show them just howuselessI am. But the entire point was to give a performance convincing enough to keep me off their radar, so I grit my teeth and swallow my pride.

Instead I say, “Don’t call me that.”

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