Page 65 of Silver Elite

She has a point. Kaine is certainly fun. I enjoy flirting with him, and the idea of falling into bed with him is tempting—if I didn’t have to be on constant alert here. Sex is a distraction I’m not sure I can afford right now. Not when I’m in enemy territory.

I wrap myself in a towel and follow Lyddie to the wall of sinks. The terry cloth hangs to my knees, concealing the burn scars on my thigh, but when I lean forward to wipe steam off the mirror, my towel rides up and I hear Lyddie’s breath hitch.

I give her a knowing look. “You can ask about it if you want.”

She wrests her gaze away. Then glances back, sheepish. “Sorry. It’s rude to stare.”

“It’s fine.”

Biting her lip, she runs a hairbrush through her damp hair. I know she wants to ask, but it takes her forever to rustle up the courage.

“So, um, what happened?”

I shrug. “Accidentally dropped a pot of boiling water on myself when I was a kid.”

“Whoa.” She grimaces. “That must have been painful.”

Excruciating. I still smell the burning flesh in my nostrils sometimes, that’s how visceral the memory is. It’s as clear to me as my reflection in the mirror. Running through the clearing, arms stretched out as I pretended to fly with the bluebirds flapping around my head. Then I blinked and Uncle Jim was grabbing me. He was frantic, ignoring my confusion, my protests, as he gripped my waist and pushed the waistband of my shorts down a couple of inches. He’d seen something when my arms were thrown in the air, when the hem of my shirt rode up to reveal a sliver of bronzed skin.

“When did this happen?” he demanded, and I remember peering down at the birthmark. A perfect circle right below my hip bone. About two inches in diameter.

Blood red.

“I dunno,” I whimpered, because I truly didn’t.

But he didn’t like that answer. He grew agitated, displaying anger. Dread. “When did this mark appear, Wren?”

“I dunno,” I insisted, and I watched as he drew a breath.

“Wren.” He cleared his throat, softening the gravel from his voice. “I love you very much.”

I frowned. This was so unlike him—emotion. He didn’t show emotion, and he certainly didn’t voice it. “Can I go back to the birds now?” I whined.

“No. Come stand beside me. Stand still. Don’t move a muscle.”

With one hand, he drew my shirt up to my navel, then dragged my shorts below my hip. And before I could grasp his intentions, his other hand was circling the handle of the steaming pot on the fire, and I shrieked as the scalding water poured over my exposed flesh. A high, bone-chilling sound that caused every bird in the clearing to take flight, flee in haste. He threw the empty pot aside and tried to reach for me. He said my name and I screamed for him not to touch me. Batted at his outstretched arm and scurried backward, my anguished sobs piercing the air.

“I’m sorry, little bird. I had to,” he said roughly, as the skin of my thigh puckered and bubbled, charred and reddened. A piece of fabric from my shirt had melted into my burnt flesh.

I hated him that day. The kind of hatred that makes your hands shake and your breaths shallow.

My adult brain understands why he did it. He’d acted in my best interests. The bloodmark needed to be destroyed, plain and simple.

But I bear a different mark now. A badge of ugliness that brings pity to Lyddie’s eyes before she shifts them back to her own reflection.

—

The whispers continue into the following morning. I notice Ivy frowning at me in the mirror before she leaves the lavatories. I catch Kess’s smirk. Anson’s dead stare. Roe’s shrewd one. I’ve yet to decipher the captain’s younger brother. He carries himself with an air of entitlement, treats our instructors with insolence and apathy. I sense a destructive petulance in him that makes me uneasy, but at the same time, I get the feeling he’s far more intelligent than he lets on.

Pretending to look for my source, I linger in the barracks so I don’t have to walk to the mess hall with them. Only after they shuffle out and I hear their footsteps retreat do I step into the corridor.

The clinking of utensils against plates fills the vast mess hall when I enter a few minutes later. I grab a tray, get in line, and dutifully accept my plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Not synthetic bacon, either. I suppose the one upside to being held prisoner by the Command is that these jerks get to eat real meat.

I scan the room until I spot Kaine’s blond head. He’s with Lash, Lyddie, and Betima, but not at the corner table we occupied yesterday. Half a dozen Red Cell members beat us to it this morning.

Mess hall is the only time we see the recruits from Red Cell. They tend to stick to one side of the room and keep to themselves. It’s interesting how we’ve naturally broken off into two opposing forces, mistrustful of each other despite us never competing, never even interacting.

I notice I’m drawing a lot of stares. The clatter of trays and hum of conversation remain constant, but I feel too many pairs of eyes on me, and I don’t like it. Whispers tickle my wake, and by the time I reach my table, I’m annoyed.

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