Chapter 31
Raven
The weeks following my cafeteria performance had settled into an almost comfortable rhythm. My graphic description of how to kill people with everyday objects had earned me a healthy buffer of personal space in the hallways.
Life was almost... normal. And that made me deeply uncomfortable.
The school's annual "Defense Training Week" couldn't have come at a better time. A full week away from classrooms, spent at the Redwood National Defense Training Facility just outside Los Angeles. For normal teenagers, this was their first taste of military discipline—a watered-down boot camp designed to instill some semblance of respect and teamwork in privileged high school students.
For me, it was amateur hour. My training with Bloodline had made Navy SEAL hell week look like summer camp. I'd survived training regimens where thirty entered and one emerged. Where failure meant death, not demerits.
Still, watching pampered teenagers sob through their first set of pushups promised to be the most entertainment I'd had in months. Plus, there was something deliciously ironic about being the deadly assassin who everyone thought needed protection lessons. Like watching a shark take a swimming safety course.
Our bus pulled into the compound, the tall fences and watchtowers bringing an immediate sense of familiarity. Home, almost.
"Look at this place," Leo whispered beside me, nervousness evident in his voice. "It's like a prison."
I smiled. "More like a playground."
As we filed off the bus, my instincts kicked in—scanning perimeters, identifying exits, assessing security protocols. Force of habit. The base was impressive for a civilian training facility—clearly federally funded with military-grade equipment visible even from the entrance.
That's when I saw him.
A sleek black Bentley pulled up to a separate entrance, and Nash Wilder stepped out with the casual confidence of someone who owned the place. Several decorated officers—actual military brass, not the training instructors—immediately flanked him, their posture screaming deference. They saluted before escorting him through a restricted access point.
What the fuck?
Nash Wilder—the man whose organization was supposedly on every government watchlist—was being treated like royalty by high-ranking military personnel. The contradiction was jarring: America's most dangerous "terrorist" leader receiving salutes from decorated officers. This wasn't just professional courtesy; it was deference from the highest levels of military command to someone officially labeled a threat to national security.
I was so focused on following his movements that I didn't notice Maya and Leo approaching until they were right beside me.
"What are you staring at?" Maya asked, following my gaze.
I composed myself instantly. "Just checking out the eye candy," I replied smoothly. "Military bases always have the best selection."
Leo groaned. "You're still thinking about hot guys? Just wait until training starts—you won't have the energy to care about anything except when you can sleep again."
"Seriously," Maya added, punching Leo's arm lightly. "Worry about yourself, Leo. Those chicken arms aren't going to survive pushups."
Leo scowled, lowering his voice. "Have you guys heard? Maddie and Tyler are doing this training camp too. With their entire entourage." His eyes darted nervously. "Military training is basically survival of the fittest. These instructors? They're trained to break people. I heard last year a kid fractured his ankle during drills and the sergeant made him crawl two miles back to barracks. Called it 'adaptive mobility training.' They see pain as weakness leaving the body and injuries as souvenirs. If Tyler wants us to have an 'accident' during exercises, the instructors will probably give him tips on making it look convincing."
Maya's enthusiasm visibly dimmed. "Jesus. I thought the instructors would just be hot eye candy with nice abs. I didn't realize they'd be professional torturers who get off on teenage suffering."
I tilted my head, watching Maya's fear with amused curiosity. Her anxiety about the instructors was exactly what made them appealing to me.
"Oh good," I said with genuine pleasure, my lips curving into a predator's smile that never quite reached my eyes. "I finally get to spend time with like-minded professionals." I traced an invisible line across my throat with one finger.
They both turned to stare at me, Leo's face draining of color while Maya's eyes widened to perfect circles.
"Like-minded...professionals?" Leo repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, as though afraid the wrong volume might trigger something in me. He swallowed hard. "Raven, sometimes you say things that make me wonder if you've got bodies buried somewhere."
I met his gaze with unwavering calm. "Buried bodies leave evidence, Leo. That would be amateur hour."
Before I could elaborate, a commanding voice cut through the chatter. A muscular man in tactical pants and a tight-fitting t-shirt stood at the center of the assembly area, bullhorn raised.
"Westside Prep students! Form up by homeroom class! Each group will report to their designated instructor immediately!"
We shuffled toward our assigned area, where a compact, dark-skinned man with the build of a professional athlete waited with arms crossed. Despite his relatively young age—mid-thirties at most—his eyes carried the weight of experience. The kind that comes from seeing things most people can't imagine.
Several girls giggled and whispered about how hot he was, but he remained stoic, assessing us with clinical detachment.
"Remember how cheerful you feel right now," he announced without introduction. "By tomorrow, those smiles will be replaced with tears and muscle failure."
The giggling stopped.
"Better," he nodded with satisfaction. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Davis. Former SEAL Team Six, Echo Platoon. For the next seven days, I own you. No one leaves this facility without my authorization. Family emergency? Too bad. Death in the family? Send flowers. The only valid excuses are heart attacks, excessive blood loss, or complete mental breakdowns. Any questions?"
A timid hand rose. "What exactly counts as 'excessive blood loss'?"
Davis's face split into a predatory grin, his eyes lighting up like he'd been asked his favorite question. "When you can still see your own blood but can't remember your name - that's the sweet spot. One step before unconsciousness is my cutoff point."
The class fell into stunned silence.