When I wake, I am cold.
I dress in the dark, pulling on crisp fatigues and polished boots. I pull my hair back in a tight ponytail and perform a series of efficient ablutions at the small sink in my chamber.
Teeth brushed. Face washed.
After three days of rigorous training, I was selected as a candidate for supreme soldier, honored with the prospect of serving our North American commander. Today is my opportunity to prove I deserve the position.
I lace my boots, knotting them twice.
Satisfied, I pull the release latch. The lock exhales as it comes open, and the seam around my door lets through a ring of light that cuts straight across my vision. I turn away from the glare only to be met by my own reflection in a small mirror above the sink. I blink, focusing.
Pale skin, dark hair, odd eyes. I blink again.
A flash of light catches my eye in the mirror. I turn. The monitor adjacent to my sleep pod has been dark all night, but now it flashes with information:
Juliette Ferrars, report Juliette Ferrars, report
My hand vibrates.
I glance down, palm up, as a soft blue light beams through the thin skin at my wrist.
report
I push open the door.
Cool morning air rushes in, shuddering against my face. The sun is still rising. Golden light bathes everything, briefly distorting my vision. Birds chirp as I climb my way up the side of the steep hill that protects my private chamber against the howling winds. I haul myself over the edge.
Immediately, I spot the compound in the distance.
Mountains stagger across the sky. A massive lake glitters nearby. I push against tangles of wild, ferocious gusts of wind as I hike toward base. For no reason at all, a butterfly lands on my shoulder.
I come to a halt.
I pluck the insect off my shirt, pinching its wings between my fingers. It flutters desperately as I study it, scrutinizing its hideous body as I turn it over in my hand. Slowly, I increase the intensity of my touch, and its flutters grow more desperate, wings snapping against my skin.
I blink. The butterfly thrashes.
A low hum drums up from its insect body, a soft buzz that passes for a scream. I wait, patiently, for the creature to die, but it only beats its wings harder, resisting the inevitable. Irritated, I close my fingers, crushing it in my fist. I wipe its remains against an overgrown stalk of wheat and soldier on.
It’s the fifth of May.
This is technically fall weather in Oceania, but the temperatures are erratic, inconsistent. Today the winds are particularly angry, which makes it unseasonably cold. My nose grows numb as I forge my way through the field; when I find a paltry slant of sunlight I lean into it, warming under its rays. Every morning and evening, I make this two-mile hike to base. My commander says it’s necessary.
He did not explain why.
When I finally reach headquarters, the sun has shifted in the sky. I glance up at the dying star as I push open the front door, and the moment I step foot in the entry, I’m assaulted by the scent of burnt coffee. Quietly, I make my way down the hall, ignoring the sounds and stares of workers and armed soldiers.
Once outside his office, I stop. It’s only a couple of seconds before the door slides open.
Supreme Commander Anderson looks up at me from his desk. He smiles.
I salute.
“Step inside, soldier.” I do.
“How are you adjusting?” he says, closing a folder on his desk. He does not ask me to sit down. “It’s been a few days since your transfer from 241.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?” He leans forward, clasps his hands in front of him. “How are you feeling?”
“Sir?”
He tilts his head at me. Picks up a mug of coffee. The acrid scent of the dark liquid burns my nose. I watch him take a sip and the simple action conjures a stutter of emotion inside of me. Feeling presses against my mind in flashes of memory: a bed, a green sweater, a pair of black glasses, then nothing. Flint failing to spark a flame.
“Are you missing your family?” he asks. “I have no family, sir.”
“Friends? A boyfriend?”
Vague irritation rises up inside of me; I push it aside. “None, sir.”
He relaxes in his chair, his smile growing wider. “It’s better that way, of course. Easier.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gets to his feet. “Your work these past couple of days has been remarkable. Your training has been even more successful than we expected.” He glances up at me then, waiting for a reaction.
I merely stare.
He takes another sip of the coffee before setting the cup down beside a sheaf of papers. He walks around the desk and stands in front of me, assessing. One step closer and the smell of coffee overwhelms me. I inhale the bitter, nutty scent and it floods my senses, leaving me vaguely nauseated. Still, I stare straight ahead.
The closer he gets, the more aware of him I become.
His physical presence is solid. Categorically male. He’s a wall of muscle standing before me, and even the suit he wears can’t hide the subtle,
sculpted curves of his arms and legs. His face is hard, the line of his jaw so sharp I can see it even out of focus. He smells like coffee and something else, something clean and fragrant. It’s unexpectedly pleasant; it fills my head.
“Juliette,” he says.
A needle of unease pierces my mind. It is more than unusual for the supreme commander to call me by my first name.
“Look at me.”
I obey, lifting my head to meet his eyes.
He stares down at me, his expression fiery. His eyes are a strange, stark shade of blue, and there’s something about him—his heavy brow, his sharp nose—that stirs up ancient feelings inside my chest. Silence gathers around us, unspoken curiosities pulling us together. He searches my face for so long that I begin to search him, too. Somehow I know that this is rare; that he might never again give me the opportunity to look at him like this.
I seize it.
I catalog the faint lines creasing his forehead, the starbursts around his eyes. I’m so close I can see the grain of his skin, rough but not yet leathery, his most recent shave evidenced in a microscopic nick at the base of his jaw. His brown hair is full and thick, his cheekbones high and his lips a dusky shade of pink.
He touches a finger to my chin, tilts up my face. “Your beauty is excessive,” he says. “I don’t know what your mother was thinking.”
Surprise and confusion flare through me, but it does not presently occur to me to be afraid. I do not feel threatened by him. His words seem perfunctory. When he speaks, I catch a glimpse of a slight chip on his bottom incisor.
“Today,” he says. “Things will change. You will shadow me from here on out. Your duty is to protect and serve my interests, and mine alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
His lips curve, just slightly. There’s something there behind his eyes, something more, something else. “You understand,” he says, “that you belong to me now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“My rule is your law. You will obey no other.” “Yes, sir.”
He steps forward. His irises are so blue. A lock of dark hair curves across his eyes. “I am your master,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
He’s so close I can feel his breath against my skin. Coffee and mint and something else, something subtle, fermented. Alcohol, I realize.
He steps back. “Get on your knees.”
I stare at him, frozen. The command was clear enough, but it feels like an error. “Sir?”
“On your knees, soldier. Now.”
Carefully, I comply. The floor is hard and cold and my uniform is too stiff to make this position comfortable. Still, I remain on my knees for so long that a curious spider scuttles forward, peering at me from underneath a chair. I stare at Anderson’s polished boots, the muscled curves of his calves noticeable even through his pants. The floor smells like bleach and lemon and dust.
When he commands me to, I look up. “Now say it,” he says softly.
I blink at him. “Sir?”
“Tell me that I am your master.” My mind goes blank.
A dull, warm sensation washes over me, a searching paralysis that locks my tongue, jams my mind. Fear propels through me, drowning me, and I fight to break the surface, clawing my way back to the moment.
I meet his eyes.
“You are my master,” I say.
His stiff smile bends, curves. Joy catches fire in his eyes. “Good,” he says softly. “Very good. How strange that you might turn out to be my favorite yet.”
