Page 31 of Hunted

He joined us on the mat, fingers flared like he was internally at war with himself, gaze flicking between his friend and his potential prodigy.

“Something funny, Sinclair?” Beckett drawled, turning to face me.

“Infinitely.” I chuckled again, thinking abstractly that it was probably for the best that my mind was a little unhinged right now. It’d make this next part easier.

“Beck,” Evander attempted again—silenced again.

Beckett extended his right hand, bracing it with his left, his feet in the perfect stance.

The laughter died on my tongue.

“Care to share what’s so funny about this?” he asked, voice lethally soft as he aimed a sexy Beretta M9 at my head.

I smirked. At least if I had to go out like this, it was with a gun I knew would take care of the job the first time round, in the hands of a man I trusted to be deadly accurate.

“It’s just that”—my lips twitched—“I’ve spent the better part of the last two years working my ass off to not become a Swallow”—a sharp huff of derisive laughter exited my nose—“and while that’s pretty much a given for female initiates, it’s just so completely ironic that now I’m going to die a virgin instead.”

Beckett blinked twice, his brows creasing in the middle, then did that cool gun-flip thing where it spun around his index finger. He caught it by the barrel, extended it towards me butt-first.

“That’s entirely up to you,” he murmured. “Take it.”

I froze, staring at the Beretta’s sleek black surface, then back up at the intense gaze of the man offering it.

“Take the fucking weapon, Adelaide,” he growled, grabbing my hand roughly and shoving the gun forcibly into it. His fingers wrapped around mine, in a twisted echo of Pearce’s gesture a few days ago—before life changed irrevocably.

Still clasping my hand and the gun, he stepped up behind me in a move so quick neither I nor Evander saw it coming.

Van jolted as if he could stop the sadist raising his gun to my temple. He couldn’t though—and I didn’t fight him on it either.

“If you truly want death to claim you… if you want your life to be nothing more than a statistic in a dusty old Academy record book… if you want to join your friend—your loved ones—in the dirt, then pull the trigger.”

He let go of my hand, stepping back and circling to face me. So he, too, could watch as my brains splattered the mats.

But my hand remained where it was. Shaking against the cold steel.

“Do it, Sinclair.”

My finger flexed on the trigger. My lip wobbled.

To pull or not to pull…

Those unshed tears rolled down my cheeks.

I stared at the man who handed me the power to take my life into my own hands for the first time since entering these walls. The power to take my death into my own hands.

The gun rattled as I trembled, beads of sweat collecting on my forehead as I stared into those haunted green eyes. Maybe I could pretend I was running through a forest… or maybe that was still the tequila talking.

“Do it,” he murmured.

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t leave Eth here on his own… could I?

He’d manage just fine, would maybe even take that Sniper position I wanted so badly.

I closed my eyes.

Maybe I could see Fleur again.

My finger twitched again. My hand stilled at the thought.