Page 30 of Specter Bred

Ambition.

Competitiveness.

Maeve's unholy trio.

"Fine," she mumbled. "But only because beating you with your advice is too tempting."

I beamed while she glared, walking a healthy distance ahead of me, as if she didn't want to be seen with me. Hearing her breathe a sigh of relief upon making it to the firing range without running into anyone else confirmed that suspicion.

The stalls were empty, which wasn't surprising considering how late it was. Every day, our instructors ran us through a fresh circle of hell. By the time evening rolled around, most recruits barely had enough energy left to shower, eat, and collapse into bed.

Everyone except Maeve.

While the rest of us were counting down the minutes until lights out, she somehow always found enough energy for one more workout, one more drill, one more hour on the range.

"Alright, Boy Scout. Are you going to give me some pointers or what?" Maeve asked as she loaded her rifle.

"Just do your thing first," I said, leaning against the wall. "I'll watch and go from there."

She rolled her eyes, but stepped up to the firing line. Maeve exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.

Ping.

Hit.

Another shot.

Ping.

Hit again.

A third.

Ping.

Dead center.

I smiled.

"You're already good, Firecracker."

She shot me a look, but for once didn't bother protesting her nickname.

"Good isn't enough."

Her next shot rang out.

Ping.

Another hit.

Maeve lowered the weapon slightly but kept her eyes on the target.

"Good is enough when you're an alpha male."

I frowned.

"Maybe even enough when you're just a man."