A few cadets snickered. The sound died instantly under Drakken’s gaze, like a match dropped in water.
“I can’t help how I walk, sir.”
“You do not address your commanding officer without permission!” one of his aides barked, as if I’d committed treason.
I understood that every soul in this courtyard would lick the ground where the dragon prince walked. But there was no need to sacrifice me for it just because licking wasn’t my thing.
I pinched my lips, stood at the side of the formation, shoulders hunched.
“Is that how you stand at attention, Cadet Private Max?” Drakken barked. “Where’s your bearing? Where’s your training?”
I couldn’t win. I looked ahead, face burning. “Sorry, sir!”
Just get it over with, asshole.
At least the humiliation had scrubbed last night clean out of my head—no more phantom memories of Nikolai’s body pressed against mine on the chaise, his erection unmistakable.
“Who gave you the right to swagger, Private?” Drakken’s voice dropped, each word a fist. He just wouldn’t let it go. “Generals don’t swagger. Combat vets with three tours don’t swagger. You are the lowest cadet in this formation. Act like it! Your insubordination disgraces this academy. You will correct yourself. You will move like a soldier, not a street performer.” He let the silence bite. “Twenty laps. Barefoot. Begin immediately.”
I bent, unlaced my boots, pulled them off. Two pairs of socks: one on my feet, one stuffed inside my boxers to fake a male bulge. Details matter when your whole existence is a disguise. I peeled off the foot socks and tucked them into my boots.
When I straightened, Drakken’s glare was still on me. I stared back. Then—I don’t know what came over me. Of all the things I could’ve done, I winked at him.
I didn’t wait for the fallout. I turned and jogged toward the track, a block from the courtyard.
The ground was icy. The cold bit into my bare soles with every step, and tiny stones dug into the skin. I paid it no mind. I’d been one of the toughest miners at Crimson Ridge, barefoot for a decade on rock that was sharper and crueler than the track.
Bring it on, dragon dickhead!
As I ran, Drakken’s address to the battalion drifted across the courtyard, his voice carrying effortlessly over two thousand cadets who hung on every word.
A battalion of sheep,I thought bitterly.
“Meeeh! Meeeeeh! Meh!!”
Silence hit the courtyard like a bomb.
Every head turned to me. Rage seared Drakken’s eyes from across the distance.
Fuck.
I hadn’t realized the bleat had torn from my throat. A bad habit from the mines—years of muttering to myself in the deepest tunnels, where the only audience was rock, dust, metal, and Coldiron. My inner monologue had escaped through my mouth.
I could try to explain. Food allergy. Acid reflux. A physical reaction that couldn’t be controlled. But then I’d have to explain having a steak dinner at Nikolai’s penthouse. When you hoarded one lie, you had to build an entire narrative to cover it, and I had too many lies to keep the architecture from collapsing.
I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t mind the laps, but I was terrified he’d take away my breakfast. I woke up every dawn looking forward to that first meal.
So I did the only thing I could. I pretended the bleat never happened, pumped my arms and legs harder, and sprinted for the far end of the track.
Out of sight, out of mind.
So I hoped.
On the second lap,I heard boots behind me.
I turned my head. Bryn was running at my six. She flashed me a grin and closed the gap.
“Hey.”