Page 2 of Lone Wolf

On Sundays there are waffles. But you have to make them yourself on the waffle iron, and I don’t know how to use it.

Today is Wednesday, so I heap scrambled eggs onto my plate, some turkey bacon, fried mushrooms, and grab a fresh-squeezedOJ to wash it down. I sit alone, an island even as the room starts to fill up with mercenaries returning from a good night’s work, and sleepy recruits too lazy to head to the gym before they stuff their mouths.

They won’t last, those ones. No discipline.

After breakfast, I have a mandatory therapy session. The Syndicate brings in Dr. Diana Khatri three times a week. It used to be daily; I pretended well enough to have it dropped back. But I struggle to pretend well enough to get her to sign off on me altogether.

The office she uses is always too warm, too intimate, toocalm. I prefer cold spaces—they keep you alert, focused, ready for anything. Warm rooms like this are designed to make you relax, lower your guard. There’s a happily-steaming humidifier in the shape of a lotus flower on the coffee table between us and the faint scent of sandalwood and jasmine in the air. I can never tell if it’s her perfume or if she spritzes something around before I get there. We sit opposite each other, and I have to force myself back in the chair instead of perching on the edge, ready to flee as soon as we’re done.

I know that Johnny de Luca was the one who recommended this therapist, and everyone acted like I should be awed that he took any kind of interest at all. But I’m not. I don’t like him and I don’t like his therapist and I’m tired of pretending I need fixing when I’m not broken.

No one acts like Scarlett needs fixing. Or Lyssa, for that matter. They get treated like rock stars.

And I get…

Therapy.

“Good morning, Sarah.” Dr. Khatri’s voice is deliberately modulated, soft but firm. She sits with perfect posture, as if she’s posing for a professional photo.

“Good morning.”

“How are you sleeping?” She smiles encouragingly, her head tilting at a precise angle that she probably practiced in front of a mirror.

“Fine.”

“Any nightmares? Because when we first started?—”

“No.” I’ll be damned if I’m going to describe my dreams to this sleek-haired woman whose only problems revolve around getting her manicure perfected each week. I know she gets it done each week because they’re a different color each time, thick talons coated in shiny polish, sometimes with fucking sparkles on them.

I guess I do like the sparkles. I had a sparkly rug at Grandmother’s house.

Sparkles and pink and girlie things that made me feel…

I don’t even know anymore. My current dorm room is spartan. Even the teddy bear, Mr. Fluffikins, I left with my mother. She has him sitting on a bed in a spare room that she keeps telling me I’m welcome to move into any time I like.

Dr. Khatri leans forward and finally drops the cutesy act. “Any meaningful connections with the other recruits?”

This is when she starts digging, third question in, each time. I almost laugh at this one—because meaningful connections?

With these losers?

Right.

“Oh, sure,” I say blandly. “I’m getting along real well with everyone.”

She tilts her head to one side and, for the first time, I see the flicker of something in her eyes that makes me wary. “I see,” is all she says.

And as I leave the office, I get the feeling I might have fucked myself over with that last little piece of sarcasm. But it’s time for training now, my favorite time of day, because I get to beat up all these wide-eyed morons who think they’re badasses just because they made it through round one of the Syndicate’s intake process.

The training room is the largest space in Elysium, with soaring ceilings and walls lined with weapons. Training mats are everywhere, there’s a full-sized MMA cage at one end, and a boxing ring down the other end of the room. Lyssa stands at the front of our group, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, dark eyes scanning the room. Scarlett moves among the recruits, adjusting stances with a gentleness I find contemptible.

I kick major ass—literally. When I’m paired up for sparring with Enzo Rittoli, I send him flying several feet through the air. He wheezes as he lands, winded, and I allow myself the tiniest of smirks. His style is pure aggression—no subtlety, all force. A common mistake among men who rely on strength over skill.

I wipe the smirk away quickly, but one person has noticed. Lyssa, who never takes her damn eyes off me during training.

“Nice kick,” says a voice to my left, and I whip around to see—ah, yes. The golden fucking retriever of the group, Susana “Sunny” Santiago, with her crazy-dyed hair and wide grin, her golden-brown eyes sparkling as usual. “Think you can teach me?” she goes on.

“Step right up,” I offer coldly.

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