Chapter 16

Training Camp – Day 12 (Part 1)

Yesterday feels like a fever dream. Did that actually happen? Yes.

"You did alright here last time, didn't you? Good hands, if I recall."

Waking up this morning, the tension among the recruits is different —less fractured, more unified. The way Styles addressed the rumours yesterday put an end to the murmurings, but it didn't erase the way they'd changed things. The way they'd changed him and me. The man is fucking insane. Today will prove whether or not it was a risk worth taking – not that I had any say in the matter.

Styles stands before us, hands behind his back, surveying us with that familiar sharp gaze. If yesterday's retaliation against the recruits had been a statement, today's approach is a return to business. No special treatment. No extra attention. If anything, he's backing off, no longer making a point of his authority over me. And that, somehow, makes the tension sharper.

"Last week I gave you the day off to prepare. Today, you don't get that luxury. We're back to survival skills, and we start now."

He leads us outside. I stick close to the group, aware of the subtle shift in our dynamic. Since Styles addressed the rumours head-on, the sharp-edged whispers have dulled to something else entirely. They still watch me, but it's different now—more curious than accusatory. The morning air is crisp, the ground still damp from last night's rain, and the scent of wet earth hangs thick as we stand at attention in the clearing.

"Last time we were out here, you lot barely made it through a night without freezing your asses off," Styles begins, his voice carrying easily over the clearing. "Today, we're running scenario-based survival drills today. Last time was about the basics—keeping yourself alive in rough conditions. This time, we're adding complications. Injuries. Limited resources. Potential enemy movement. If you fail, you'll know about it."

Kelso groans under his breath. "Why does everything he says sound like a threat?"

Fairley shoots him a wary look. "Because it probably is."

Styles smirks like he heard them. He probably did. "Jefferies and Kelso. Hawkins and Fairley. Langsford and Barnes. Daniels and Connolly. Reid and Patterson." His gaze drags to me. "Holton, with Cairns. Start collecting resources in your pairs. While you're working, I'll throw a couple of curveballs your way. React."

We break off into our pairs, spreading out into the wooded area, scanning for supplies. Twigs crack underfoot, the damp air clinging to everything as we move. I stick close to Cairns, scanning the forest floor for anything usable—kindling, branches, anything to start a fire.

Style voice echoes in the distance as we can hear him dishing out the first of his challenges.

Daniels! You're injured. Broken ankle. Connolly, you're on your own."

A few yards away, Connolly curses under his breath, shooting Daniels a look. "You just had to step in a ditch, didn't you?"

"It was hypothetical," Daniels mutters.

"Not anymore," Styles calls. "Figure it out."

There's a low groan from someone else—probably Jefferies, because the next moment, Styles says: "Jefferies, Kelso—your firewood got wet. Find another way to start a fire."

Kelso's voice is already full of dread. "How the hell are we supposed to—"

"Not my problem."

From a few paces ahead, Cairns swears under her breath. "He's actually evil."

I exhale, shifting a branch from the underbrush. "At least he hasn't—"

A shadow looms. I don't have to look to know who it is.

"Holton." Styles' voice is closer than I expect. Too close. "Drop your gear."

I frown. "What?"

"You heard me." His eyes flicker with something unreadable. "You've lost your pack. Everything in it—gone. No food, no water, no supplies. Adapt."

Cairns winces. "That's just cruel."

Styles doesn't even glance at her. His attention stays on me, steady, expectant. I hold his gaze, pulse tightening. I know what this is. He's testing me—again. But now, after everything, the challenge between us has a different edge. Slowly, I drop my pack to the ground.

"Fine."

Styles hums, eyes dragging over me. I clench my jaw. Bastard. He walks off without a look back. Cairns exhales sharply, nudging my arm. "Alright, what now? He's taken our supplies. What's the plan?"

I roll my shoulders, forcing a breath. I crouch down, scanning the damp forest floor. "First priority is fire. Without that, we're screwed for warmth, cooking, and boiling water. If we can't use a lighter or matches, we'll need friction."

Cairns laughs "What, like the friction between you two?"

I snap my head to look at her, already on the defensive. But when I see her face, I realise there's no malice there. Maybe I need to lighten up. I allow myself to laugh at her joke.

"Sorry" she says genuinely. "Bow drill or hand drill?"

"Bow drill's easier, but we need a shoelace or cord—" I glance at my boots, dropping to loosen the lace. "You gather dry bark and twigs. I'll sort the drill."

She moves off to collect tinder while I find a solid branch and begin fashioning a makeshift bow drill. Across the clearing, other recruits handle their own curveballs. Styles observes from a distance, arms folded, sharp gaze tracking each group. A few minutes in, Cairns hasn't returned, but my bow drill is complete. I strike it against the wood, grinding the spindle against the baseboard. It smokes—but doesn't catch.

"Harder," says a voice from behind me. Styles.

"That's what I'm doing," I grit out, sawing faster, sweat beading on my brow.

"Not hard enough, apparently."

I shoot him a glare. "You want to try?"

He holds up his hands. "No thanks, I'm enjoying the show." His voice is low and amused. He stands just behind me, weight shifted to one side, watching.

I continue to try. The firewood smokes between my fingers, breath catching in my chest. I could answer normally, brush it off. But there's a dare in his eyes, in the way he lingers.

After another minute or so, I give up. Defeated, I look up at him. He keeps telling me he wants to help me. Let's see if he means it.

"What would you do?" I blurt out.

"What would I do?" he repeats, genuine confusion on his face.

"Yes. I'm out of ideas. What would you do without a pack?" I persist.

"Holton." His voice is low, almost lazy, but the undercurrent is unmistakable. "If I lost my pack, I'd just take someone else's."

I can't help but laugh. I should have expected an answer like that. Styles' is selfish. That's what makes him such a good solider.

"Yeah, well I'm not like you, I wouldn't do that." I respond.

"Then why'd you ask?" he replies smugly.

"Forgot who I was talking to clearly." I mutter under my breath.

"Speak up Holton, I could have almost mistaken you for stepping out of line there." He says with a smirk. He knows fine well what I said. Prick. "The bow drill was a good idea; it just didn't quite have the right execution," he concedes. He stands behind me, his breath near my ear as he guides my grip. "Hold it firm, but not so tight you're trembling."

Styles takes my hands to adjust them. I can feel his solid chest resting against my back and I involuntarily shiver.

"Was that from the wind, or something else?" he says with a laugh.

My pulse stutters. The firewood smokes between my fingers. I don't answer. Styles steps back just as Cairns returns. A spark jumps, catches. The bark smoulders, glowing red. I exhale, and Cairns chucks me dry moss to add until the flame flickers to life.

"Good team work." Styles says before walking off to assess Daniels and Connolly.