Page 88 of Silver Elite

Lyddie has changed into jeans and a striped tee, her hair arranged in a braid. “You don’t have to wear your uniform,” she says, eyeing me. “You should put something else on.”

I shift awkwardly on the edge of my bed. “I don’t have anything else.”

“Oh. Wait. Is that it? I thought you just preferred to wear the uniform all the time.”

“Nope. They didn’t let me bring any personal belongings. They gave away my ranch, my clothes. Everything I own is gone…” I trail off.

Sympathy fills her eyes. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well…” I gesture to my navy blues. “You’re looking at my entire wardrobe.”

“I wish we were the same size.” She mulls it over. “I have an idea.”

“It’s fine—”

“Betima,” she calls toward the front of the room. “We have an emergency!”

And then she drags me to Betima’s bunk while I do my best to hide a smile. I do like how hard she tries to be my friend.

“Wren doesn’t have any civilian clothes,” she informs our fellow.

Betima is startled. “You didn’t bring anything from home?”

“They wouldn’t let me.”

Because of my uncle.I see her making the connection as she offers a grim nod. “Got it.”

“I thought maybe you could loan Wren something?” Lyddie sounds hopeful. “You two are about the same height and build.”

“Except for the tits.” Grinning, Betima gestures to her flat chest. “As in, I don’t have any, and you have plenty.”

I snicker.

“But yes, I think I can find something.”

We walk to the rows of lockers on the far side of the room. She digs around in hers.

“Here. Try these.”

A pair of dark jeans lands in my hands.

I usually avoid changing in the bunks, same way I shower at the most deserted hours, but Betima is waiting for me, so, with reluctant fingers, I unbutton my trousers. Our fellows across the room are paying us no mind, and if Betima is disgusted by the raised pink scar tissue covering my thigh, she doesn’t let it show. She appraises me as I zip up the jeans. Her hips are narrower than mine, so the denim is tighter around my waist and rear. But they mostly fit.

“Outstanding,” she says, then tosses me a top. “Try this.”

I peel off my uniform shirt, leaving me in a bra. Fortunately, Anson’s not in here. I know where his eyes would be if he were.

She’s given me a black crop top with thin straps and a perilouslylow neckline. I slip it over my head but can barely tug it over my chest.

“Ditch the bra,” she advises. “It’s black. No one will see the nips.”

Without the bra, there’s a lot more breathing room, although I’m conscious of the way my nipples instantly bead against the fabric. The shirt ends just above my belly button, baring my stomach, and the neckline is racier than I prefer.

“You’re pure smoke,” Lyddie tells me, smiling shyly. “I love it.”

“Thanks.” I glance at Betima. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

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