Fashioned For Sin

chapter 37

The Dominion feels even colder after being outside, the air stiff with silence and focus. As I walk toward the weapon centre, a flash of something catches my eye—a black car parked near the entrance, too close. It doesn’t seem like an accident.

I hesitate, narrowing my eyes. But then I shake my head.

Paranoia doesn’t look good on you, Blair.

The weapon centre is already alive with tension. Ashley stands by the wall of gleaming steel, her arms crossed as Daniel leans beside her, smirking. Benedict surveys the group like we’re soldiers lining up for war.

"Let’s not waste time," Benedict announces, his voice sharp, slicing through the room. "Each of you will select a weapon. This will be yours to master, in addition to firearms. Choose wisely—your life will depend on it."

I step forward, my eyes scanning the rows of weapons: swords, axes, throwing knives. There’s an art to each, but none feel quite right. Then my gaze lands on a pair of black daggers, their handles carved with intricate patterns of gold and red. I pick them up, feeling their weight in my hands, testing the balance.

Perfect.

Ashley scoffs. "Daggers. Classic drama queen move."

I glance at her without missing a beat. "At least I won’t accidentally throw my weapon into a wall."

Benedict clears his throat, cutting through the banter. "Let’s begin."

We’re paired off for training. Anaïs—a tall, athletic woman with piercing green eyes and an attitude that screams don’t waste my time—is my coach. Ashley is stuck with Daniel, much to her visible annoyance, and Benedict partners with Karissa.

Anaïs doesn’t hold back. The first time I grip the daggers incorrectly, she twists my wrist until the sting forces me to adjust. "You’re holding a weapon, not a fork," she snaps.

I bite back a retort. My muscles ache as she puts me through relentless drills, making me repeat movements until they feel like second nature. By the end of the first hour, my hands are shaking, my hair sticks to my damp skin, and my breath comes in ragged bursts.

Then Leonardo walks in.

It’s unfair, really—the way he can stroll into a room and shift the entire atmosphere. His eyes scan the scene before landing on me. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. "Don’t tell me you’re already tired."

I glare at him, ignoring the way my heart flutters. "Some of us have been working."

He shrugs, joining the session as if he’s been here the whole time. His presence lights something in me, though I can’t tell if it’s adrenaline or irritation. Maybe both.

---

By the time we’re dismissed, my body feels like it’s been wrung out and hung to dry. But there’s no time to collapse; Benedict calls us to the operator’s room, the nerve centre of the building.

The room hums with quiet energy, monitors lining the walls, displaying maps and streams of intel. The large table in the centre is scattered with blueprints and files. Benedict stands at the head, his presence commanding.

"This isn’t a game," he says, his voice calm but razor-sharp. "In a few weeks, you’ll face your first mission. The details will come soon. For now, know this: it’s a test. Succeed, and you prove you belong here. Fail—" He pauses, letting the weight of the word settle over us. "Failure isn’t an option."

The room is silent. My chest tightens as his words sink in.

Leonardo leans against the table, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. But when he glances at me, his lips twitch in a ghost of a smirk. It’s not reassurance—it’s a challenge.