Page 69 of Hunted

“Without further ado, let’s uncover who our next batch of Assigned Assassins have proven themselves to be,” Varco announced, now back behind his podium. His middle finger scooted his wire-rimmed glasses higher up the bridge of his nose as he read from the sheet in front of him.

“Dakarai Abina.”

Dak froze, eyes wide.

I froze for an entirely different reason. This was it. This was my one, main rival for Eagle.

“Shrike,” Varco declared, and Dak visibly deflated.

Shrike was better than Raven. Shrikes—or butcherbirds as they were more commonly called—were ground-level assassins. They were essentially glorified hitmen—but infinitely better than glorified prostitutes. Not that there was anything wrong with being a prostitute—it just wasn’t the line of work a virgin could ever feel comfortable in.

But Dak’s butcherbird classification left the skies wide open for me. Eth’s elbow to my side indicated he thought so too.

Commander Varco cycled through the first half of his list of names—Cohen and Ace among them, assigned as a Shrike and a Raven respectively—until he landed on another familiar moniker.

“Mercy Lopez. Swallow.”

The first Swallow assignment. Also the first female recruit called out.

Mercy remained motionless while Seb and Bodie snickered amongst themselves from Ethan’s right. I didn’t think she was surprised by the assignment—she didn’t believe her lot would end up any differently. And I didn’t particularly think she minded, either.

Mercy was always overtly open with her sexuality, and more than content with her dainty appearance. In fact, I thought she’d do quite well as a Swallow—some women excelled in that line of work.

And honestly? It was better than being dead.

I bet even Fleur would give anything to be named Swallow instead of wherever it was she’d ended up. But I couldn’t dwell on that—not now.

Varco had spat out more names and designations, and then it was my turn.

Eagle still hadn’t come up.

I practically had it in the bag.

Excitement prickled my skin—validation had my hair standing on end, until finally⁠—

“Adelaide Sinclair.”

Please say Eagle. Please say Eagle. SAY. EAGLE.

Varco’s gaze seemed to slide over me like oil in water, leaving an invisible residue on my skin. His upper lip curled, revealing a pointed canine in a barely-there sneer.

“Swallow.”

What?

“No.”

Surely I’d misheard him. Surely the sharp whine ringing through my eardrums must have muddied the words.

The room stilled, a hundred heads snapping my way, and only then did I realise I’d said it aloud.

Commander Varco paused on an inhale, his gaze jumping from Ethan back to me, because Eth’s was the name he was about to call next. He was unarguably livid. His face—tomato-red and getting darker with every passing second—wrinkled in a way not dissimilar to a constipated toddler, and I almost laughed at the comparison.

“What did you say, Sir?” I said louder, silencing the ringing and the rest of the room.

It was so silent I swore everyone could surely hear my galloping heart.

Commander Varco straightened ever so slowly—unwinding like a coiled serpent readying to strike.