Page 7 of Hunted

The cylindrical length of wood was the only way through this section of track and was positioned far enough away from the rock face that nobody could use it to stabilise their steps.

A roaring hoot came from somewhere above, alerting me that I only had a handful of seconds to traverse it before the aforementioned would-be assassins showed up.

I huffed a short, sharp breath, steeling my resolve, then did something I’d never once successfully accomplished during training exercises, when we were secured via harnesses and safety wires. I sprinted across the entire length, but in a move so dickheadish it could only be chalked up to the cocktail of adrenaline and fear fermenting in my stomach, I celebrated too early and slipped right at the end.

Instead of jumping lithely off the beam as was my intention, I leaped a second too early, and my boots lost the minuscule sliver of traction they’d managed to retain—thanks to my premature break in momentum. I slipped sideways, gouging into the wood with my now-splinter-ridden fingers, and skidded to a halt with legs dangling over open air once more. The beam lay wedged firmly under my armpits, arms wrapped awkwardly overtop, breasts smooshed in the middle.

Shaking my head at my own stupidity, I jerked a leg up and over the thin column of hardwood. After righting myself and realising I now faced backwards, I swallowed any remaining dreg of pride and boot-scooted back the final ninety centimetres.

With a deep, shame-laden sigh, I got back to my feet and sprinted the rest of the way down Sapphire Ridge, leaving more macabre breadcrumbs in my wake. As the ground levelled out, I pushed through the last line of trees to an open field lined with targets and various racks of weaponry—it was an assassin academy, after all.

The first target was for dagger-throwing, the second for axes, the third for archery, the fourth for handguns, and the fifth and final target was for sniper shots.

There were still a few recruits on the field, including the only two people I really cared about here—Fleur Deveaux and Ethan Taylor.

Thank fuck they made it down unscathed.

Fleur shot me a quick, easy smile before sinking an arrow into the dead centre of the third target without even looking at it. Eth followed suit, hefting an axe over his head and sinking it into the outer border of the wooden target eight metres away. He winced, picked up another axe, and shook off his first attempt. Or at least the first attempt I’d been here to witness.

We were required to hit dead centre in order to progress onto the next target—which was probably why Dakarai Abina was half-heartedly flicking daggers in the general direction of the first target. He still hadn’t gotten the hang of the wrist snap, but give him a pistol, and that boy could hit a moving target with scary accuracy.

I moved to join him, but before I could take more than two steps, a large, lumbering figure stepped directly into my path. Blocking my way, with arms crossed over his broad chest and a scowl that could rival Beckett’s, Deklan Pearce stood unmoving—our weapons instructor.

“What the fuck happened to you, Sinclair?” he growled, glaring at my bloodied gear, mangled, dripping hands, and obvious shoulder wound.

Intending to ignore the dig, I tried to sidle around him and continue on with the last obstacle left in the Devil’s Pass assessment.

A long, hot shower in relative peace was all I could think about.

Pearce grabbed my left bicep roughly, and I winced at the jolt through my injured shoulder.

Correction: a long, hot shower in relative peace and my instructor’s warm fingers wrapped around my arm were all I could think about.

“I said,” he tried again, voice low and smooth, like the third sip of whisky after a bad day, “what happened?”

I bit my lip, debating how best to answer this direct question from a superior officer. I couldn’t tell him Sebastos Varco had it out for me, couldn’t rat out the son of the Commander—the man all my instructors answered to. I wouldn’t live to see the end of the day.

Instead, I held out my jagged palms, adopted an air of aloofness, and said, “Forgot my gloves, boss.”

Pearce’s eyes narrowed, knowing full well that I was ignoring his interrogation about my other injury, but I was saved from further comment by Sebastos, Bodie, and Eric screeching to a halt at the tree line.

Seb glowered at me—how original—his eyes promising violence, while Pearce’s flicked between us, each with matching dagger wounds on various parts of our bodies.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together, and the ill-tempered Instructor dropped my arm with a huff, directing his glare to my would-be murderer.

“Fine. Finish your tests and head in,” he grumbled before storming off towards the demon trio.

“Hey,” I greeted Dak half-heartedly, picking up a blade the size of my hand and stepping up perpendicular to the target.

“Hello,” he answered slowly, eyeing me warily. “That’s going to need stitches,” he said in his drawling South African accent, gesturing to my still-bleeding shoulder.

“Yup,” I agreed, cocking my arm back, then snapping it forwards forcefully in a clean motion. “It is.” My dagger hit the bullseye with a solid thunk, earning a wolf whistle from Fleur’s direction and a groan from Dak’s. “Got four targets left to hit first, though.”

He sighed despondently. “How did you do that?”

“It’s all in the wrist, buddy,” I replied, offering him a pat on the shoulder as I passed to grab an axe. “Snap it at the point of release.”

Three seconds later, his dagger smacked into the board hilt-first. It didn’t stick, but at least he was hitting the centre now.