Chapter 35

After leaving the session with Clarke I had returned to my dorm and crashed out on the bed. The mental toll of the day had caught up with me.

When I woke up, I realised I had completely slept through dinner. I don't mind though; I don't have much appetite. I do however, need to burn off some of my energy so I can get back to sleep again in an hour or so, or I'll be up all night. That's the problem of a danger nap.

I had half expected Styles to appear with something to say about what had gone down between him and Clarke, but of course he didn't. Once again, I'm left with a million questions, and zero answers.

I step out of the dorm and head to the bathroom, needing to freshen up after my nap. I scrub my face in the shared sink, watching myself in the mirror for longer than I should. There's a ghost of grime clinging to my cheekbone, and a smudge of black powder under one eye. My hair's a mess, half-unravelled. But it's the expression that unsettles me most. Blank, hollowed out. I look like someone who's been picked apart and stitched up again too fast.

I drag myself away from the mirror, out of the bathroom, and back to the one place I hate more than anything.

My session in the armoury today should have been more than enough to keep me away. I wish it was. But if I want to improve as much as I know I do, I need to keep pushing.

The gravel crunches underfoot as I make my way across the yard. The building's darker now, colder somehow without the constant background noise of the other recruits or the bark of orders ricocheting off the walls. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust as I step inside, the familiar scent of oil and cold metal thick in the air.

I hesitate.

For the briefest second, I consider turning back. Not because I don't want to do this, but because I almost want to tell him. Styles. Let him know I'm here. Let him see that I meant what I said. I do want to get better. I am serious about this.

I picture his face in my mind. That look from today, the way he looked right through Clarke. The way he looked like he could kill him. He'll be wound up and tense, and frankly I don't fancy being on the receiving end of his bad mood. Plus, he gave me enough of his time last night, I don't want him to think I'm looking for him to train me again.

So I don't tell him.

I let the moment pass, and instead of knocking on his door like some desperate, wide-eyed recruit looking for approval, I walk straight down the line of benches and racks and begin setting up a station by myself.

There's something strange about being here alone. Without the chaos. Without the judgement. The silence wraps itself around me, thick and expectant. I load the weapon carefully, slowly, checking every step. My hands still tremble a little when they hover over the slide. But they settle faster now. They don't stay afraid.

I start basic, going over what I had covered in assembling with Styles yesterday, and ignoring everything I had done with Clarke today.

I'm halfway through assembling the gun for the second time, when I hear the door open. It's like deja-vu when I see Styles enter.

"I thought I told you I'd help you?" he asks, his voice filling the room.

"Did you?" I reply.

"Do you ever fucking listen?" he asks sarcastically.

"I don't think you explicitly said that," I defend.

"Christ, I didn't realise you had the literacy skills of a four-year-old. I thought you would have been able to infer," he mocks.

"My literacy skills are perfectly adept. It's you who needs to learn to speak more clearly. Your riddles, or inferences as you like to think, will cause a serious misunderstanding one day," I respond boldly, praying only afterwards his mood isn't as sour as I had anticipated.

"You understood me perfectly fine when I asked you if you wanted me to stop taking your clothes off," he teases. "No, don't stop," he mimics my voice. My face instantly burns at the memory, and his brazenness.

"I didn't think you meant it," I say, trying desperately to change the subject.

"Meant what? My offer to help?" he questions.

"Yeah. And even if you had meant it, you seemed... worked up. With Clarke." I regret it the second I say it. It sounds too pointed, like I'm fishing. But Styles doesn't bite.

Instead, he shrugs. "Clarke's a cunt. You're not. Two separate issues."

I look away, trying to focus on the disassembled pieces in front of me. "I'm just working on assembly still anyway, want to get it perfect," I admit.

He moves around the bench without asking, standing opposite me now, and nods towards the parts I've laid out. "You missed a step."

I frown. "Where?"

He doesn't answer. Not with words. Just reaches out, smooth and deliberate, and adjusts the angle of the recoil spring assembly. Our fingers brush for a second, barely, but it's enough to make me aware of how close he is.

"Try it now," he commands.

I follow his instruction without arguing. My fingers move more surely this time, muscle memory kicking in where nerves had taken hold before. The weapon comes together cleanly, clicking into place with satisfying precision. First try.

"Better," he says. But there's no praise in his voice. Just assessment.

I glance up.

"Just 'better'? Not even a 'well done'?"

Styles smirks, but it's not cruel. It's almost amused. "You want a sticker too?"

I should have known better than to expect praise.

"Sorry," I mumble, not really meaning it. "I just don't want to waste your time if I'm not making progress."

Styles rolls his eyes at that.

"Waste my time?" he repeats back to me.

"Yeah. That's why I didn't tell you I was coming here. You were already giving me more attention than you probably should have. I didn't want to... overstep," I say, embarrassed.

"You showing up here again tonight, on your own time and in a place you hate? That told me everything I needed to know," he starts. "Me showing up here should do the same for you."

Silence falls over us, and I feel like there's nothing more to be said right now. So I change the subject again.

"Okay, if I've mastered assembly, what should I work on next?" I ask him, seeking his guidance.

He bursts out laughing.

"Easy tiger. You've assembled a gun correctly. Once. You're hardly a master. Let me push a little harder before you get cocky," he taunts.

"Harder? How can you make it harder?" I ask.

He looks at me silently for a moment, then shakes his head.

"Like this," he says, and begins to undo the bandana holding back his hair.

He steps behind me and brings the bandana in front of my face. I instinctively jerk back.

"Woah, what are you doing?" I ask, turning around to face him.

"Making it harder, and trust me it's a lot fucking harder when you can't see," he explains.

"You're blindfolding me?" I ask exasperated.

He just looks at me with his eyebrows raised, as though I'm asking a question with an obvious answer.

"You must be joking," I scoff.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" he asks.

"I'm not ready for that!" I protest.

"You were a master two minutes ago," he says sarcastically.

"But-, I-, I don't know if-" I stutter, trying to think of how to get myself out of this.

"Come onnn," he drawls. "So what, choking gets you going but a blindfold doesn't? Yeah, I don't buy that for a second Holton," the arrogance radiating off him now.

I still can't respond, left even more speechless by his sexual drivel.

"Do you trust me?" he asks, loosing the smirk from his face.

"Fuck no," I say instantly.

"You could have at least pretended to think about it for a second," he says, laughing lightly.

"Sorry," I mumble for the second time.

"We don't have to if you don't want to, but I hope by now you know that I only ever want to see you succeed. Sometimes I have to be cruel to be kind, but I do it to make you better. I don't want to hurt you," he says, trailing off slightly at the end.

He holds my gaze, the bandana hanging loosely between his fingers now, forgotten for a moment.

I swallow hard, my chest tight. He doesn't want to hurt me. It's the sincerest thing he's said since I met him. And for some reason, that makes it even harder to breathe.

"I know," I say quietly, surprising even myself.

A flicker of something crosses his face. Relief maybe, or pride, but it's gone before I can place it. He lifts the bandana again, slower this time, giving me a chance to pull away if I want to.

I don't.

"Just- just don't be a dick about this, okay? No teasing," I mumble, as he places the bandana over my eyes, and begins to tighten it at the back of my head.

"Oh, I'm absolutely going to be a dick about this," he responds, and although I can't see him, I know for certain the smirk is back.

My senses heighten instantly as he ties the bandana firmly at the back of my head. I focus on the sound of his boots as he steps around me. I can feel my breathing quicken slightly at the unknown.

"You're fine," he says. Not soft, not coddling. Just matter-of-fact. Like he knows I can handle it.

I let out a shaky breath.

"Get started," he instructs.

I reach out, fumbling slightly as my fingers trail over the table, trying to locate the pieces. Everything feels unfamiliar without my sight. Disjointed. Wrong. The unknown brings back some of the anxiety I used to feel. What if I fucking shoot myself?

"You're too tense," Style voice breaks through my inner monologue, and I notice his voice is closer now. "You're panicking before you've even started."

"I'm not panicking," I lie through gritted teeth, my hands scrambling uselessly over the cold metal.

"Then stop rushing. Feel for the barrel. It's longer. Smooth. Easy to wrap your hand round"

I stop for a second, as I can't stop the image that comes to my mind as he says those words. I can't see his face to know for sure, but I'm fucking certain that was his intention. I wish the bandana covered more of my face, as I'm sure my cheeks are red.

I move my hand slowly until I find it. "Got it."

"Good," he says. A beat passes. "You're not bad at this when you stop thinking so damn much."

I manage to suppress a smile.

Piece by piece, I work through the motions, my hands guided only by memory and instinct. He stays close, his presence unnerving and steady all at once.

At one point, I falter, unsure whether I've aligned something correctly. My hand stills.

"Stuck?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

"I think I've-"

His hands suddenly close over mine, warm and confident, adjusting my fingers gently but firmly. His chest brushes my back.

"Like this," he murmurs, his breath grazing my ear.

I freeze.

His fingers stay over mine, guiding them with barely-there pressure. He doesn't need to hold me hard. He knows I'll follow.

"See? You're better when you stop trying so hard," he murmurs. His voice is lower now. It's gravelly, laced with a heat that wasn't there before. Or maybe I just hadn't noticed. Maybe the blindfold is stripping away everything but the sound of him, the feel of him.

"I'm not trying," I whisper, but it sounds pathetic even to me.

His hand moves again, up my wrist this time. It's slowly dragging.

"You're always trying. To impress me. To prove something. You don't need to," he mutters.

"Then what do I need?" I ask, and I hate how breathless I sound.

"You just need to listen. Trust me. Let me help you."

He pulls away slightly, but only slightly. His front is still pressed to my back, and I can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest. He's breathing heavier too now. Good. I'm not the only one falling apart.

"Put the recoil spring in," he says, like we're still pretending this is just a lesson. Like my thighs aren't pressed together, desperate and aching.

I reach out, fumbling, fingers trembling as I find it. It's slick and cool in my hand.

"Slower," he instructs. "Feel it. Let your fingers tell you where it wants to go."

"You're doing this on purpose," I whisper, finally acknowledging the unspoken of what's really going on here.

"Doing what?" he asks, all innocence. But his hands are on my waist now. Anchoring me. Thumbs resting just at the base of my spine.

"You know exactly what," I say, trying to sound angry, but it comes out as something else entirely.

He leans in again, his mouth by my ear.

"That so? I'm just helping you to get better. If I'd known a blindfold is what it'd take to make you so obedient, I'd have done it along time ago," he murmurs.

"Fuck off," is all I can reply

"Let's not pretend," he drawls.

"I don't know what you mean," I try to deny.

"Remember, you might be blindfolded but I can see you clearly. Blindfolded. Obedient. Squirming," he teases.

My stomach flips violently. I clench around nothing.

"And the best part is," he continues, almost like it's a confession, "you're loving this as much as I am."

"I don't-" I start, but his hands move up, one settling over my stomach, holding me still.

"You're flushed. Heart's racing. Breathing like you've just run ten fucking miles," he says. "I don't need to see your eyes to know exactly what you're thinking."

I inhale sharply. "And what am I thinking?"

He chuckles, dark and low.

"That if I told you to sit up on this bench and spread your legs, you'd do it."

My knees almost buckle.

"You want me to stop?" he asks, voice serious now. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just raw.

I should. I know I should.

But instead, I whisper, "No."

He groans quietly, and then his lips are at my neck—just a breath, not quite a kiss, not quite nothing. I tilt without thinking, baring more skin.

He takes my hands again, guiding them back to the weapon, and this time I'm shaking for an entirely different reason.

"Finish the job," he says. "Then maybe I'll reward you."

A/N:

Thank you SO much for all the love recently. We're nearly at 1k views and 100 likes. Logging in and seeing those likes is so motivating, I can't thank you all enough. Sorry the short hiatus, new chapters coming your way soon!

Love, b x