Page 20 of Silver Elite

Pit night. I’m still not entirely sure what I’m in store for, but everyone in Black Cell is going, so I’ve agreed to join Lyddie. I heard Ivy tell Bryce earlier that the pit serves as both entertainment and release. With leisure passes scarce, it’s a way to combat the perpetual boredom that naturally plagues the Command.

In the barracks, recruits are getting ready around me, and I feel a twinge of self-consciousness. It’s quite unlike me, as normally I don’t stress about my wardrobe or how I dress in comparison with others. But I’m seeing my female fellows slipping into short skirts, tight denim, tiny tops, and it triggers a rush of insecurity.

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 perilously low 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.”

I sit on my bed to do up my laces. The black boots look good with the jeans and the top.

“Did you bring any makeup?” Lyddie asks Betima. “Wren’s skin tone is probably closer to yours than mine.” Lyddie’s skin is whiter than our sheets.

Betima grabs her toiletry case. “Let’s hit the mirrors.”

She and Lyddie race off ahead of me toward the lavatories, and I have to jog to keep up. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve felt…young. Carefree. Like when Tana and I were just starting upper school and discovering how much we liked looking pretty and flirting with cute boys. Or cute girls, in Tana’s case. For a second, I forget where I am, and I’m forced to rebuke myself. You’re not in Hamlett. You’re a Command prisoner.

But sometimes it’s nice to forget.

—

This pit everyone keeps talking about is located inside a warehouse in the north sector of the base. As the three of us walk there together, I feel an aggravating sense of camaraderie with Lyddie and Betima that I wish I could ignore. There’s a sense of community, too, as soldiers arrive in groups, pouring into the warehouse.

When we walk in, all I can make out is concrete pillars and shadows. Voices travel in the darkness, waves of laughter echoing off the concrete walls. My gaze tracks the bodies disappearing down a dark corridor.

“Come on, I think it’s this way,” Lyddie urges, her eyes twinkling in the shadows. She tugs on my hand, and we follow the crowd.

As we round a corner, the sound of raucous laughter grows louder, and now I hear the beat of a fast dance track and feel the bass line vibrating beneath my boots. A moment later, we emerge into a vast open space, a makeshift arena illuminated by flickering light fixtures dangling from black cords on the scaffolding along the ceiling.

I immediately see the pit. It’s not deep, maybe five feet below us, ringed by a concrete ledge. There’s no seating in the huge room, so soldiers are using the ledge. The bright lights cast shadows on the sand in the pit. It’s a beige-brown color with patches of black. It isn’t until we get closer that I realize those patches are bloodstains in the sand.

“Whoa, this is intense,” Betima says, focusing on the spectacle in the pit.

A throng of eager onlookers are cheering for two male fighters whose bodies move in a blur of motion as they exchange blows. The crowd roars with every punch and kick, the atmosphere thick with excitement. There’s no referee. There don’t seem to be any rules at all, I note, as I watch one of the men elbow his opponent in the throat.

Betima passes me a whiskey bottle. She used her credits at the commissary for it, and I take a cautious sip before passing it to Lyddie.

I’m no stranger to drinking, but I need to keep a clear head every second I’m here. I can never lower my guard, especially after my encounter with Anson. I’m currently armed with the knife Cross allowed me to keep. I grabbed it from my locker when Lyddie and Betima were applying their mascara, and it’s safely tucked inside my right boot. All I have to do is bend over and it’s in my hand. I refuse to let Anson or anyone else on this base catch me off guard again.

A loud burst of laughter from across the pit catches my attention. I raise a brow when I spot Xavier Ford among the group. He’s sitting on the ledge…with Tyler Struck in his lap.

I turn to my friends. “Did you know they were together?”

“I had no clue,” Lyddie says. “They barely even look at each other in the training center.”

They’re doing a lot more than looking now. Ford’s hand slides down the bumps of the woman’s spine before slipping beneath her shirt. I glimpse him stroking bare skin, while his lips travel along her neck. She laughs and whispers something in his ear. Whatever she says has him lifting his head to grin at her.

One of the men in their group turns toward Ford, and my breath hitches when I realize it’s Cross. Clad in dark pants and a white T-shirt, he holds a bottle between his long fingers, dangling it by the neck. I recognize the clear glass bottle. Vodka cider. I’ve noticed the alcohol selection on this base is very limited. All I’ve seen at the commissary is whiskey and vodka cider.

Lyddie and Betima drift closer to the edge of the pit, finding a spot by a pillar with so many cracks in the stone that it looks like it’s going to crumble any second.

My gaze flits back to Cross. Drawn there as if by a magnet. Suddenly his head moves, and those blue eyes find mine. His expression is unreadable. But I don’t miss the way his gaze travels from my face down to my bare midriff, then back up. It leaves hot shivers in its wake.

“The captain is staring at you,” Betima says. She’s smirking.

“Maybe he’s staring at you,” I counter.

“Definitely not. It’s you.”

I blanch, even as a teeny jolt of pleasure sparks in my belly. I’m embarrassed by the response. Resentful of it. I shouldn’t be susceptible to this man, just because he happens to be attractive.

I don’t want to be attracted to him. I don’t want anything to do with him.

“All right, children! Who’s next!”

A booming voice thunders through the din, drawing our attention back to the sand. The voice belongs to a burly man with a shaved head, who struts into the center of the pit, grinning broadly.

“Who’s got a vendetta they want to pound out in the sand? Or who just feels like getting bloody?”

Laughter ripples through the crowd. My gaze flicks to Cross again.

He has some company now.

A petite young woman with shiny dark waves streaming down her shoulders, long eyelashes batting up at the captain. She’s midsentence when he shifts his gaze away from her. Toward me.

I lift the whiskey bottle and take a sip. When a drop of liquid clings to my bottom lip, I drag my tongue over it, and his eyes narrow.

“I got this!” shouts a female voice.

The crowd sways and then parts for a woman in ripped jeans and a high ponytail. Although she’s lacking in height, she’s so muscular I can’t help but stare. Damn.

Her opponent is a tall girl as thin as the sweetgrass on my ranch.

“Five credits says Mel takes this,” I hear someone declare.

“You’re on,” his comrade chortles. “Collie will snap her arm like a twig.”

“Are they going to be breaking bones?” Lyddie sounds alarmed.

“I doubt it,” I assure her. Then again, they might well be.

The guy with the shaved head shouts over the music. “Remember the rules—everyone leaves the pit alive. Good luck, girlies.”

Rules, plural? Sounds like only one rule to me, but I’m relieved to hear that nobody is allowed to murder each other down there. I suppose the COs would never allow pit night to exist if soldiers were getting killed. The General needs his minions, after all.

The air crackles with anticipation. When the fight starts, I instantly comprehend why everyone waits with bated breath for a pit night.

These soldiers aren’t here merely to spar. They’re here for blood.

The women charge toward each other like frenzied beasts, fists swinging. I flinch as the sound of bone meeting flesh echoes throughout the pit. Before long, blood drips from split eyebrows and broken noses, yet neither woman shows any sign of backing down.

The entire time, I’m aware of Cross. His green-eyed companion is all over him, her fingers gliding over his bare arm. He doesn’t seem overly interested in returning her advances.

It’s odd to experience him in a social setting. To see him laugh. To see him make other people laugh. When he leans over to whisper something in Struck’s ear, she throws her head back in delight. Is he funny? He’s never struck me as funny.

In the pit, the skinny woman finally taps out when Ms. Muscles locks her in a submission hold that threatens to shatter every bone in her arm.

As a new match starts, Kaine and Lash push their way through the crowd and join us. Appreciation darkens Kaine’s gaze when he notices what I’m wearing. It lingers on the swell of my cleavage.

“Staring is impolite,” I chide.

Lips curving, he sidles closer to me. “Nobody ever said I was polite, cowgirl.”

Kaine swipes the whiskey from Betima, then proceeds to shamelessly flirt with me until I don’t know whether to throw him into the pit or kiss him senseless. I’m sort of leaning toward the latter when we’re interrupted by more of our fellows. Someone drags Kaine away, and I’m left on my own as the next fight gets under way.

“You shine up nice.”

I jerk when Roe comes up beside me. His dark eyes skim my bare stomach, and I feel it like the scrape of a jagged fingernail.

I don’t respond to the compliment. I keep my gaze straight ahead. Unfortunately, straight ahead happens to be directly where Cross is standing, still talking to the girl with the shiny hair.

Roe follows my gaze and chuckles. “Don’t bother. You’re not his type.”

I give him a sidelong look. “Oh no. I’m devastated.”

“He likes them fragile,” Cross’s half brother continues, as if I hadn’t even spoken. “That way he can take care of them, hold them close so they don’t break. Be the hero.” Roe laughs again. I think he’s inebriated. Or high on stims. Probably the latter. “That’s the irony, isn’t it? Because he’s the one who ends up breaking them.”

Roe’s view of his brother doesn’t reconcile with the one I’ve slowly been forming. I can’t picture Cross with a breakable woman. I suspect it would irritate him.

“Like poor Eversea. Tried so hard to please him.”

“I can’t figure out where you got the idea that I care about this,” I tell Roe.

“You’re the one staring at my brother.” We both watch Cross laughing at something Ford said. It draws another chuckle from Roe. “Don’t let it fool you.”

“What?”

“The jovial captain. He’s a coldhearted bastard.”

“I thought you were the bastard,” I say sweetly, and enjoy how it extinguishes the humor on his face.

Before he can retort, a murmur goes through the crowd.

“Oh, this should be good,” someone near us says.

I glance at the pit in time to see Xavier Ford hop over the ledge and onto the sand.

Cross is jumping in after him.