Page 1 of Hunted

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ADDIE

RIOPY – WYDEN DOWN

A bucket of ice water to the face never did inspire a good start to the day. Not when said bucket included actual ice cubes pelting every inch of my exposed skin. For that matter, neither did the leering face of one egotistical instructor hovering over me, empty bucket in hand.

Hunter Beckett was a teenage girl’s wet dream. All six feet, three inches of broad shoulders, golden, sun-kissed skin, forest green eyes, and abs so shredded you could grate cheese on them. Thankfully, my hormone expansion years were long behind me, and I was jaded enough to see right through his pretty facade.

Usually.

It definitely helped remove any lingering effects of rose-coloured glasses whenever he deigned to open his sinful mouth and hurl another insult my way. Every word he ever uttered was expertly designed to chip away at a person’s resolve or pass harsh truths through perfect teeth.

“It’s coronation day, Ice Queen. Wake the fuck up,” he barked into my freshly doused face. “Assessment starts in five!”

Beckett’s announcement tore through the room like a gunshot, rousing all sixteen other initiates in various states of panic. Somehow I’d been the only lucky recruit to receive the ice water alarm clock—for the fourth morning in a row.

Figures.

“Yes, Sir!” I shouted, leaping to my feet.

It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to bite my lip and hold an impending grin at bay when the saturated covers I’d just flung off my legs flicked a neat arc of water across Beckett’s torso.

I guess that’s what happens when you effectively waterboard someone and remain standing too close, Sir.

Before I could take so much as one step towards my trunk, he leaned in, rooting my feet to the spot. He was perilously close—close enough that I could smell the faint hint of mint toothpaste on his breath, mixing with a disgustingly intoxicating cologne that had me scowling at the traitorous throb between my legs.

“I know you need more beauty sleep than the others, Sinclair, but that’s no excuse for sleeping in,” he murmured, his warm, minty breath dancing across my frigid cheek. “Though judging by that face, I should have let you rest another hour. At least.”

Asshole.

I glowered further as he straightened, self-assured smirk firmly in place on his smug, tanned face.

“Something to say, recruit?” he goaded, crossing ridiculously toned forearms across his equally mammoth chest.

I refused to bite. I would not be baited—not on an assessment day. Instead, I stubbornly clamped my jaw shut on the vitriol lingering just behind my teeth, refusing to meet Fleur’s livid gaze across the room. It wouldn’t do me any favours to see the furious glare on the face of my best friend right now.

“Good. Clean this mess before drills. And don’t”—he paused, eyeing me severely, like I was a speck of mud on his perfectly polished boot—“be late.”

And just like that, Hunter Beckett waltzed out the door, initiating a five-minute countdown that felt more like a bomb defusal than a wake-up call.

While every other recruit dashed for the shared bathroom, I spent minute five wrenching the soaked bedcovers off my cot, replacing them with a fresh set from the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Minute four disappeared as I raced down the hall, arms laden with a clean set of training gear, swearing at the six-person-deep queue to use one of the three available toilets.

Minute three was wasted hopping from foot to foot, desperately trying not to piss my pants while the bastards in front of me took their sweet-ass time evacuating their bowels before drills. I contemplated using the shower stall, but decided to braid my hair instead—a distraction from the excruciating need to pee.

With two minutes left, I finished securing my long platinum hair in a braid that wouldn’t last more than five minutes without falling apart—a futile battle, really. I finally emptied my bladder, cursing out the last fucking prick who’d left me with an empty roll of toilet paper.

Minute one went to drip-drying and throwing on my standard-issue black winter training gear—black cargos, a black long-sleeved tee, and black military-style boots. I raced down one of the institution’s darkened flights of stairs to join my comrades in the open quadrangle at the heart of Blackwing Academy.

Who were standing in a downpour.

Fucking excellent.

And with two seconds to spare, I skidded into formation beside an acne-faced boy I hadn’t bothered to learn the name of over the last eighteen months.

Judging by his withering glare, I’d just stolen our physical instructor’s chance to exert further physical punishment—none other than the illustrious Hunter fucking Beckett.