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I side-eyed him. “You’ve never described her like that before.”
“Hm?”
“Sylvie. You’ve always said she was meek and mild-mannered. Now you’re suddenly saying she was stubborn and brash.”
He waved a hand. “People can change. She was all of those things over the years.”
“I see.”
“As I was saying, just because you’re a legacy doesn’t mean you’ll automatically make it to the third level. You know it isn’t like other societies where legacies have the upper hand. It’s all down to you as an individual. Whether you are a correct fit or deemed trustworthy is entirely dependent on the behavior you demonstrate during your time in the second level, the answers you give to questions asked of you during the interviews, and the manner in which you conduct yourself in the trials. Only ten percent make it to third.”
“Right.”
“We’ll see how you go with Tatum before we consider you,” he said. “Now, it’s your turn.” He gestured toward the guy working the trap thrower. “Pull!”
The clay target seemed to fly out in slow motion as my mind drifted to Tatum yet again. Just two more weeks until she was mine.
I pictured her on her knees, forcibly submitting to me and sobbing, makeup running down her face in harsh black streaks. She would be exhausted, eyes filled with terror. I would grant her no mercy, breaking her into pieces day after day. I didn’t give a shit if she was scared, didn’t give a shit about what she wanted. Her hopes and dreams didn’t matter to me one iota.
Eventually she would learn her place with me and willingly submit, desperate to please her owner. I couldn’t get the thought of that out of my head. It was stuck in me at all times, a potent cocktail of lust and hate pounding through my veins. Even though I’d barely spoken to her or touched her, I could already feel her soft skin, breathe in her scent, taste her lips, all in my imagination.
Of course, the real thing would be better, and now it was right around the corner.
I narrowed my eyes, aimed my shotgun, and pulled the trigger.
This time I didn’t miss.