Chapter 15

Training Camp – Day 11

Waking up this morning, my conversation with Styles last night replayed in my head. I didn't think I needed validation from him, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel better for knowing I wasn't receiving any special treatment. As for convincing the others, like Styles said – that's not my job. I need to move on. Putting the last few days aside, I've got such a bond with everyone here. The last two weeks have been such a unique and whirlwind experience. Sure, there are 1000's of us being trained up. But only these 11 people have been in the drills I've been in, been coached by Styles, been berated by Styles, lived in this dorm, eaten in this mess. The list goes on. This experience definitely hasn't been easy, but they've made it easier.

Today is first aid. A topic I feel relatively comfortable with. But when we get to the medical centre, it's thick with a different kind of tension. Not the usual weight of exhaustion or quiet dread that comes with another round of physical drills, but something more electric, more charged. Everyone feels it, but no one says a word.

Styles has been in an infuriatingly good mood since the start of the day. That's how I know something's coming.

We sit cross-legged on the mats while Styles lay out supplies. Bandages, gauze, tourniquets, IV kits—it's all here again, the same as last time. But the atmosphere is different. The first session had been tense in the way all early training had been, with Styles drilling us on life-saving procedures like it was a combat scenario. But today? He's smirking.

"Who remembers how to keep someone from bleeding out?" Styles asks once the session begins, arms crossed over his broad chest, gaze sweeping over the recruits. "Fairley?"

Private Fairley practically jumps. "Uh—uh, apply pressure, sir. And elevate—"

Styles waves a lazy hand, cutting her off. "Yeah, yeah, basic stuff, glad you're capable of something Fairley."

Ouch. Something is definitely going on with him today. Styles being harsh is no abnormality, but usually it's with purpose or when it's deserved.

Then his eyes find mine, and something in his smirk sharpens. I'm genuinely worried.

"Holton." His voice is silk and challenge wrapped into one. "You did alright here last time, didn't you? Good hands, if I recall." There's an edge of amusement in his tone, a deliberate weight to the way he says it. The recruits shift, side-eyeing each other. I swear Hawkins' mouth twitches, like she's fighting a smirk. What. The. Fuck?

Trying not to rise to Hawkins, or Styles, I reply stoically, "Yes, sir."

His grin deepens. "Good. Then you can patch me up."

Murmurs ripple through the group. I keep my face blank, but my pulse picks up. What the fuck is he doing? The recruits have spent the last few days whispering, throwing sideways glances, accusing me of getting by with flirting—accusing him of letting it happen. And now he's twisting the knife, right in front of them.

"Come on, then." Styles settles onto the mat, stretching his legs out. "I'm bleeding out, Holton. What're you gonna do about it?"

The challenge is unmistakable, the smirk daring me to react. I don't give him the satisfaction. I might not be able to control his actions, but I can control mine. I kneel beside him and grab the gauze. 

"Where's the wound, sir?"

He taps his thigh. "Femoral artery. Better hurry up."

A muscle tightens in my jaw, but I press the gauze down, harder than necessary. His breath hitches—just a fraction—but it's enough. My eyes flick up, meeting his. I don't miss the glint of amusement in his gaze, like he's enjoying this.

His grin turns razor-sharp. "Mmm. Thought you'd be gentler."

Heat creeps up my neck, but I refuse to let it show. Around us, the recruits are dead silent, caught between second-hand embarrassment and the unbearable tension crackling between us.

"Holton's doing great, don't you think?" Styles addresses the group, though his eyes don't leave mine. "Real natural."

Kelso clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. Sure."

Styles' smirk widens. He knows exactly what he's doing. Every touch, every quip, every look—it's deliberate. A performance, a show of control, a way to turn their own words back on them. I, however, am mortified.

I wrap the bandage tight, maybe too tight. His fingers brush mine as he adjusts the wrap. The contact is fleeting, but enough. Enough to send a jolt through me. Enough to make it obvious. And by the way his smirk deepens, he knows it. In this moment I decide, I could fucking kill him.

Styles claps a hand down on my shoulder as I finish, squeezing just enough to throw me off. "Nice work, Private." Then, louder, to the recruits: "See? Told you she was good."

My face is on fire. The recruits are fidgeting, avoiding eye contact, but there's no mistaking the way they shift, the way they glance between us, seeing exactly what he wants them to see.

Styles leans in, just enough for only me to hear. "Hope that clears things up."

And just like that, he pushes himself to his feet, clapping his hands together. "Alright, next victim. Let's see if anyone else can match that."

The recruits scramble. I exhale, pulse hammering, trying to steady the storm inside me. He's impossible. Impossible and insufferable and—

Smirking at me from across the room.

_______

The walk back to the barracks is silent. Tense. No one quite knows what to say. My jaw is locked so tight it aches. My head is spinning. Styles' blatant favouritism, his smirks, the way he had so obviously singled me out in front of everyone. Everything I had asked him, only yesterday, to assure me he would never do.

The recruits don't look at me. Jefferies wears a puzzled frown, like he's trying to work something out. Kelso, for once, keeps his mouth shut. Fairley shakes her head to herself.

Hawkins is the first to break. "That was fucking weird, right? It wasn't just me?"

Kelso lets out a breathy laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "No, that was fucking weird. I mean—I knew he was an arsehole, but that? He wasn't even trying to hide it."

Jefferies exhales sharply, shaking his head. "He's messing with us. Has to be."

Fairley looks between them all, hesitant. "But why? What's the point?"

"Did you say something to him?" Hawkins asks, addressing me directly for the first time.

"What- no! I was as confused as you all." I reply, my answer genuine.

"Yeah, to be fair, you looked horrified" Jefferies defends me.

When we arrive back at the dorms the recruits either head off to the mess or straight to their bed. Me, however? I have somewhere else to be.

I don't stop to think, don't consider what I'm about to do. There's just a hot, coiling frustration inside me, and I'm not going to let him get away with whatever game he's playing. My knuckles rap hard against his door. Again. And again.

The door swings open, and there he is, leaning against the frame.

I shove past him, stepping into his room without waiting for an invitation. "What the fuck was that?"

He lets the door fall shut behind me, turning at an infuriatingly slow pace and walking over to the desk against the wall, leaning on it. 

"That," he drawls, "was a medical training session. You seemed to enjoy it."

I glare at him. "Don't. You spent yesterday telling me I was getting by on my own merit, and today—today you make it look like I'm your fucking favourite? In front of everyone?"

"I don't see it like that" he replies calmly.

My chest is heaving. "Bullshit! You know what I'm talking about. You were deliberately rubbing it in their faces."

"Was I?" His quips, head tilting. "Or was I proving a point?"

I scoff, "What fucking point? That you can play with me like a fucking puppet?"

He pushes off the desk then, stepping closer. Not touching me, but close enough that I feel the shift in the air.

His voice drops, low and even. "That if I wanted to show you favour, they'd fucking know about it. That what they've been whining about these past few days? That wasn't favouritism. But this—?" He gives me a pointed look. "This was."

My breath catches. He set this up. He wanted them to see the difference. To force them to rethink everything they'd been whispering about behind my back, and to my face. To humiliate them the way they had tried to humiliate me.

I can't get any words out. I just stand there, trying to keep breathing.

"You saw their faces, didn't you? The way they all shut up? If I wanted to actually hand you an easy pass, I'd have done it long before now. But this? This makes sure they never question it again. Doesn't matter what's true, Holton. It's all about perception. It's not true that I give you any advantage, but they couldn't see that. So, I showed them."

I should be furious. I am furious. But there's something else, too—something dangerously close to understanding.

He steps back, nodding his head towards the corridor. "Unless you've got something else to get off your chest, Private, I'd suggest you get back to your dorm. Unless, of course, you'd rather start another rumour. Go now, and I'll forgive you barging in here like you own the place." He's back to smirking.

My jaw clenches. He knows exactly what he's doing. I don't say anything. I simply turn sharply on my heel and walk away.