Rhi searches my eyes, then nods as well, turning back to the match.
The first-years circle each other on the mat, and I carefully turn the vial in my hand, letting what I know to be a colorless powder fall from the glass into the creases between my palm and fingers. I withdraw my hand in a fist, keeping it tight at my side as Dasha delivers her first blow, a punch straight to Sloane’s cheek.
The blonde’s skin splits.
“Fuck,” Imogen mutters. “Come on, Mairi, hands up!”
Someone screams from the mat behind us, and we all look over our shoulders to see a first-year staring lifelessly up at his opponent. Shit. Killing an opponent during a challenge isn’t cheered. But it also isn’t punishable. More than one grudge has been settled on these mats in the name of strengthening the wings.
I suddenly feel a lot less guilty about my plans.
The girls circle again, and Dasha kicks high, catching Sloane on the unmarked side of her face so hard that her head snaps sideways, and then her body follows, turning as she falls to the mat, landing on her back.
“That was faster than I expected,” Rhi notes, worry lacing her tone.
“Me too.” I lift my closed fist to my mouth and shift my weight, making sure that I look as worried as I feel as Dasha follows Sloane down to the floor. The pair is only a few feet away, so at least I won’t have to skirt my way around the mat. “Crouch,” I say under my breath to Imogen.
She drops without question. “Come on, Mairi!”
I lower myself, too, panic creeping up my throat at the look on Sloane’s dazed face as Dasha lands another punch, then another, and another. Blood spatters the mat.
Yeah, that’s enough.
I wait for Dasha to exhale, then open my palm slightly and cough. Hard.
She breathes in and gets one more hit.
Then she shakes her head and her eyes glaze over.
“Get up, Sloane!” I yell, looking her dead in the eye.
Dasha falls back on her ass, blinks rapidly, her head wobbling as if she’s been at the pub for the evening.
Sloane rolls to her side and plants her palms on the mat.
“Now,” I order her.
Anger fills her eyes, and she lunges forward toward Dasha.
Dasha’s fist curls, but her swing doesn’t make contact as Sloane buries her shoulder in Dasha’s stomach. At that angle, she had to have knocked the breath out of her.
Good. She only has another moment. Maybe two.
Sloane scrambles behind Dasha and then yanks her up and into the weakest chokehold I’ve ever seen. But hey, if it works.
“Yield!” Sloane demands.
Dasha bucks upward, her strength and focus returning.
“Yield!” Sloane yells this time, and I hold my breath.
Gods, if I judged wrong and Dasha gains the upper hand again…
Dasha finally drops her hand to the mat and taps twice.
My shoulders droop in pure relief as Emetterio calls the match.
“What did you do?” Imogen whispers without looking at me.
“What needed to be done.” We both stand as the first-years do, but unlike them, we don’t stumble as we gain our feet.
“You sound like Xaden,” Imogen says.
My gaze swings toward her.
“Relax. It’s a compliment.” She smiles. “Liam is immeasurably grateful right now.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat.
“Not half bad,” Rhiannon says, glancing sideways at me before watching Sloane take her place with the rest of the first-years in our squad. “Not good, either.”
“I’ll give the match a six,” Ridoc comments. “I mean, she didn’t lose, so clearly that rates above a five.”
The next pair takes the mat.
Once today’s challenges are over, I look at Imogen and nod toward Sloane before heading that direction. “Give me a second,” I say over my shoulder to Rhiannon.
Imogen jogs to catch up.
“Mairi,” I say as we round the corner of the mat, crooking my finger at her.
Sloane lifts her chin in the air, but at least she comes. This isn’t exactly the kind of discussion I want to scream across the gym.
“Ouch.” Imogen points to her right eye as she approaches. “That’s going to swell shut.”
“I won, didn’t I?” Her voice shakes.
“You won because I took Dasha out for you.” I keep my voice low and spread my palm wide open, where there’s a trace amount of the shimmering powder left on my skin.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I won that fair and square.”
“Gods, do I wish that were true.” I huff out a breath. “Ardyce powder, when combined with an earlier dose of ground lillybelle, disorients someone for a minute—maybe two, depending on the dose. Similar to being drunk. Alone, they’re mildly upsetting to the stomach. Together?” I lift my eyebrows. “They kept you alive.”
Sloane’s mouth opens and shuts once. Twice.
“Damn.” Imogen grins, rocking back on her heels as cadets shuffle past, heading for the door. “Is that how you got through those first challenges last year? Devious, Sorrengail. Fucking brilliant, but devious.”
“I did that for your brother,” I tell Sloane, keeping eye contact even though the hatred shining through hers hurts like hell. “He was one of my closest friends, and I promised him while he was fucking dying that I’d look after you. So here I am, looking after you.”
“I don’t need—”
“Wrong tactic,” Imogen lectures. “‘Thank you’ is appropriate.”
“I’m not thanking her,” she seethes, her eyes narrowing on me. “He’d be here if not for you.”
“That’s some bullshit!” Imogen snaps. “Xaden ordered—”
“You’re right,” I interrupt. “He would. And I miss him every single day. And because of the love I have for him, it’s okay that you hate me. You can think whatever you need to about me if it gets you through the day, Sloane. But you’re going to train. You’re going to accept help.”
“If it’s Malek’s will that I join my brother, then so be it. Liam didn’t need help,” she retorts, but there’s a touch of fear in her eyes that lets me know most of this is bluster. “He made it on his own.”
“No, he didn’t,” Imogen argues. “Violet saved his life during War Games. He fell off Deigh’s back, and it was Violet and Tairn who flew after him and caught him.”
Sloane’s lips part.
“Here’s the deal.” I take a step closer to Sloane. “You’re going to train so you don’t get yourself killed. Not with me. I don’t need to be part of your development era. But you will meet with Imogen every single day if that’s what she wants, because I have something you want.”
“I highly doubt that.” She crosses her arms, but the effect is ruined by the rapid swelling of her eye.
“I have fifty of the letters Liam wrote for you.”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh shit.” Imogen’s head jerks toward mine. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I don’t look away from Sloane. “And at the end of every week that you attend and participate in whatever Imogen thinks you need, I’ll give one of them to you.”