Page 71 of Specter Bred

Instead, he waited.

He'd let the entire day pass, then latch onto some minor infraction near the end of training and use it as an excuse to assign us extra drills. A missed count, a crooked strap, or a response half a second too slow cost us our evening. Graves looked for any mistake to justify punishing us.

Then came the same clipped order.

"Headache One and Headache Two, meet me after hours."

And just like that, Hayes and I would spend another evening under Graves's supervision. While the rest of the recruits enjoyed a shower, a hot meal, and some well-earned shut-eye, Graves forced the two of us through another cycle of hell.

Hayes still thought his attention meant something more. I just thought Grizzly was an asshole.

My delusional ass had convinced myself that maybe, just maybe, our conversation in his office had changed something. For the past few weeks, it felt like we'd come to an understanding of sorts. I actually believed that he'd finally given me a chance.

Now I knew better.

Whatever moment of understanding we'd reached that day had been temporary.

"I think he's moved past trying to make us quit," Sammy said through ragged breaths.

"Oh, yeah?" I asked. "What's your new theory?"

He adjusted the straps of his pack. We wore all our gear , body armor, weapons, helmets, the whole miserable setup, as we jogged laps around the track in the dark.

Hayes' expression turned solemn.

"Now, I think he's set on just killing us."

I snorted.

"I could've told you that, Boy Scout. Whether we drop dead or quit, he gets the same result."

I hit the next corner and increased my pace.

"Not having to deal with us anymore."

Sammy laughed. Unfortunately, I wasn't entirely joking.

My attention drifted toward the edge of the track, where Graves had planted his grumpy ass in an old metal folding chair near the fence line. Despite being the middle of the night, he wore stupid sunglasses, his boots propped comfortably on top of a cooler full of ice water neither of us could drink.

His arms sat folded across his chest, his head tilted back slightly. I narrowed my eyes. The bastard was probably asleep.

He’d dragged us out here in the middle of the night, sentenced us to run until our legs gave out, and couldn’t even bother to stay awake for our suffering.

"Do you think he's actually sleeping?" Sammy asked.

I glanced over again, considering it. Graves hadn’t moved a single oversized muscle in twenty minutes.

After careful consideration, I settled on “No.”

"Why not?"

"Because that would require him to trust us."

Sammy considered that for a moment. “Good point.”

Silence settled between us again, broken only by our heavy breathing, the steady thud of our boots against the track, and the occasional clink of gear from our kits. It didn’t bother me one bit. Sammy, on the other hand, seemed physically incapable of letting silence exist for over thirty seconds before he had to fill it.

“Think he’d notice if we stole the water?”