Leave Me Behind

Eren divides us into three groups for the trial raid. We only have three days left in training to both infiltrate the enemy base and rescue the hostages. Once we do that, we need to bring them back to the extraction point. That alone is a one-day trip on foot, depending on whether the hostages are “injured.” If they are, it might be longer.

It’s hard to believe we’re already in the final week. It’s felt much, much longer than three weeks.

I’m stationed on a short cliffside that dips into a meadow, close enough that I can get a kill shot confidently. If I can’t protect them today on the mock extraction, then I don’t deserve to be on their squad.

It’s easy to spot the six of them. Bradshaw is the only one on his own. He works alone with only his sniper counterpart as his backup. Those were his demands for a new partner. I’m guessing he wanted to work with someone specializing in long distance after Abrahm’s death. Though I’m sure Eren took his demands with a grain of salt, considering I specialize in close combat too.

We haven’t received the real mission details yet, but from what I’ve picked up through eavesdropping on Eren, I know that it’s going to be remote with little to no vantage points. I doubt I’ll be using my sniper as much as my handgun and KA-BAR.

I watch as Bradshaw moves like a shadow born from the darkness itself, unsheathing his false blade marked with red. His broad shoulders flex as he readies his knife.

The others surround the small building we tracked the hostile squad to and lie in wait for Bradshaw to take out as many of the exterior guards as possible.

My finger curls slowly around the trigger and I take a deep breath as Bradshaw sneaks up behind the first soldier and draws his blade over their throat. The soldier falls silently and Bradshaw guides their limp body gently to the ground to avoid any sound. I raise a brow at the acting on the hostile team’s part. I’ve only seen LARPers take a fake mission this seriously.

Bradshaw doesn’t waste a second. He’s already moving again, slowly creeping up to the next one. Watching him work so effortlessly sends a disturbing throb through my body. He’s not actually killing them, but it’s evident that he’s done so many times before. A devil in human skin. Watching him move so fluidly gives me an itch I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks. Something inside of me yearns for him.

My blood burns through my veins.

A cruel grin pulls at my lips as the hostiles alert to Bradshaw’s presence and start flooding from the building. Ian, Harrison, and Eren flank from the left while Jefferson and Pete come in on the right. They won’t make it to Bradshaw before he’s outnumbered.

I take a deep breath and hold it as I pull the trigger.

The sniper rifle bucks against my shoulder with recoil, but I hold it steady; a red cloud of dust explodes on a soldier’s temple. I wince, hoping their helmet took the brunt of the hit. These new practice guns sure pack a punch. I reload without blinking and hit the next target, who’s about to shoot Pete in the chest.

Reload.

A flash of a scope makes itself known behind a wall of trees and underbrush. My body is rolling to the side before I can consciously process it. A false bullet hits the rock I just had my back against. Red powder coats the stoneface and the smoke plumes before being carried by the wind. Jesus. I roll back quickly and locate the marksman. He’s about to shoot again, but I’m faster. My bullet hits his stomach and he goes down.

Reload.

Fuck. Where’s Bradshaw? My eyes trace over the battlefield three times, but I don’t see him. He must be inside getting the hostages. I shoot three more men before Bradshaw comes out of the building with two limping hostages on his shoulders. Pete and Ian help him while Eren rushes inside to get the rest of them out.

I take a relaxing breath.

So far, so good. If this is as hard as it gets, then I’ve definitely secured my spot on the team. If only it were this easy to earn their respect and trust.Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

All their backs are turned, having cleared the building and they’re making their way back to the base. From my location I have clear sight of them the entire way. Looks like we can call it a day⁠—

A man comes running out of the building with a dummy grenade. If the red powder gets on my squad, we fail the mock mission. It’s easy to pull the trigger, second to breathing for me. The red plume that breaks on the man’s helmet draws all their attention and every single one of them looks utterly shocked.

A wry smile pulls at my lips, but it quickly fades when I see that Bradshaw doesn’t look impressed. He’s the only one that seems displeased with the results. Of course, he isn’t impressed. What will it fucking take?

I want to land a bullet in his chest as payback. But all that will earn me is an all-night watch.

I follow them with my scope the entire way back. There are a few soldiers hidden in the trees and I pick them off easily before my squad is even walking through the area. I finally lower my eye from the scope as they get back to base and let my forehead hit the ground with exhaustion.

I did it.

“If I were an enemy, you would’ve been dead ten minutes ago.”

My eyes widen and I whirl, pushing up to my knees as adrenaline spikes in my chest. I wince at the pain across my ribs and knees.

“Bones? What the fuck, you’re supposed to be back at base. When did you⁠—”

“Shut up,” he says harshly.

The air gets stuck in my lungs and my rage flares instantly. I stand and shove his chest hard. He isn’t even fazed by it. His pale blue eyes only narrow at me with disdain.

“What do you want?” I say with venom, unsheathing my sharp, very real, knife. He looks down at it like it’s a toy, as if he doesn’t think I’ll actually use it.

“I want you to quit, Bunny,” his voice is cold and there’s something lethal about his demeanor today. He wouldn’t try something again, would he? The blood drains from my face at that thought. Because unlike our prior fights, today we’re completely alone and our squad is far out of earshot.

“I told you I’m not going to. Do you have any idea how many times I saved all your asses today?” I shove him again but he doesn’t back up. Instead, he grips my forearm tight enough that it stings.

His eyes don’t show any emotion as he pulls me closer. His cloth mask is the only barrier between our lips as he whispers, “Nell.” My name sounds more like a plea than a threat. More like Jenkins’s voice than Bradshaw’s. “I’m not letting you join our squad. You either quit… or I’ll make you.”

I tear my arm from his grip and turn my back to him so he won’t see the tears brimming in my eyes. This mock mission has been draining and I don’t have much mental endurance left. Focus on something else. I start unloading my sniper rifle and packing the gear up. There’s no talking to this guy. No middle ground.

He’s fucking insane.

His low sigh is the only sound he gives before wrapping his hands around my neck. It instantly triggers my fight or flight response and my elbow flies down into his ribs. He doesn’t expect it and we fall to the ground together—his grip loosens instinctively and I take the chance to slip out of his hold.

I grab a fist full of dirt and throw it in his face. He groans and shuts his eyes but his hand reaches for me faster than I can crawl. His grip on my ankle burns as he digs his fingertips into my flesh.

A shriek rises from my throat as he pulls me toward him. He’s scrambling to get me pinned under him. My mind flashes back to the sparring match and I refuse to be in that situation again. The cut on my ribs throbs and a hot, wet sensation spreads over my side. It’s already broken open a few times over the weeks. It needs stitches to stay shut. I thought to mention it to Eren, but with everyone rooting for me to get off the squad, I thought better of it.

“Bradshaw, get the fuck off of me!” I scream and that seems to piss him off more.

He pins my arm to the ground as I kick him in the balls.

We both groan. Fuck this. Fuck this guy.

I dig my fingers into the earth to crawl further away from him.

“Say my fucking name out loud again and I’ll bury you,” he growls as he rises to his knees. He really won’t let this go. He won’t let me be on the squad.

I want to give in so fucking bad. I want to throw in the towel, because who in their right mind wants to protect someone like him? He deserves to die. But there’s a small voice in the back of my head that won’t let me give in.

I’ll never find the truth about what happened in Patagonia if I quit.

Bradshaw grabs my wrists and spins me over to my back. He looks down at my face with hesitance before glancing at my wrist like he’s going to snap it. “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”

I don’t wait to find out what he’s sorry for. “Me too,” I say as I hook my leg around his knee and force him to fall to the side, right off the edge of the short cliff. But he doesn’t let go of my wrist and pulls me over the ledge with him.

It’s not a far drop, maybe eight feet, but it feels stretched into many granular moments. All I see are Bradshaw’s blue eyes—all the anger vanished and replaced with anguish. He pulls me close to his chest and wraps his arms around me. His hand cups the nape of my neck. Was it out of panic or does he not hate me as much as he tries to convince me?

His head tucks in close to mine and we hit the ground with enough force that it knocks the breath out of my lungs. Our bodies roll down the slight incline for a few feet before we tumble to a stop.

Dust rolls over my body and my face stings with gravel burns. Twigs and brambles are tangled up in my messy braid. I take a moment to take inventory of my pain before moving. It doesn’t feel like anything is broken so I let out a small recouping breath.

“Shit.” Bradshaw curses from a few feet away. He’s already moving toward me and is at my side in a few seconds. His gear is covered in dirt. He looks fine, other than the red scrapes that line the skin visible around his eyes and the bridge of his nose. I’m surprised when he looks down at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

I groan as he rolls me to my back, wincing as he unzips my vest and lifts my shirt to the bottom of my breasts to check the cut across my ribs.

My mind goes fuzzy as a fresh wave of agony rolls through me.

“Fuck, it tore open.” He unlatches his side pocket and grabs a new roll of medical tape. His hands are trembling as he lowers them to my bare flesh. The pads of his fingers are hot and that thin line between pain and lust lights up again. Something I shouldn’t enjoy, but I do.

I grab his wrist and stop him from wrapping it. “Don’t touch me, asshole,” I rasp and take the tape from him, fumbling with my own shaking hands to get the damn thing open.

He watches me in silence as I pull the old bandage off. I have to bury my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from whimpering. Blood quickly leaks from the wound. My hands aren’t moving as smoothly as I’d like. I’m not sure if it’s because of the shock from the fall, the fact that my partner attacked me, or because I’m a second away from a mental breakdown.

Blood smears across my hands and stomach as I roll the medical tape around my chest. It keeps sliding and making it worse. I’m about to just pull my shirt down and deal with it once we get back to camp, but his hands reach out and rest over mine, steadying them.

I freeze and let my eyes flick up to his. He gives me an apologetic crease of his brow but doesn’t say anything. Slowly, he takes the tape from my hands and finishes binding the injury.

I observe him carefully as he does. There’s a war waging in his mind right now. He’s made it clear he wants me off the squad. He’ll go to great lengths to make that happen. But then he gets upset after I’m hurt… My teeth set and I try not to think about it anymore. I try not to focus on the dark, wanton look in his eyes as he traces my skin with his fingertips.

Bradshaw’s thumb digs into the flesh of my hip and I jerk involuntarily at the sensation of it. He smirks under his black mask. “You fucking masochist. I knew you liked when I carved you up. Your thighs were hot and rubbing beneath me. Is that why you won’t go? Because I keep feeding your sickness?” His voice is hoarse. I know a crumbling man when I see one.

“You obviously enjoy dealing out pain. It’s not my fault you discovered my kink.”

His smile stretches under his mask but his eyes remain dull. He lets his hands, covered in my blood, come down to his sides and we share an uncomfortable silence before he seems to come back to himself. He stands slowly and, without a word, walks back in the direction toward base alone.

My head falls back to the ground and I lie there for a few minutes.

What the hell am I supposed to do to get him to trust me?