"She was bred to be the perfect soldier. She doesn't blink, she doesn't think, and most importantly she doesn't hesitate. She just kills without remorse."
Her entire life, Storm had only be one thing; a mindless soldier for those around her to use f...
You said: Hey man, I love you, but no fucking way!"
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STORM REMEMBERED THE FIRST TIME she was shot like it was yesterday. The way the bullet pierced through her skin, hot and vicious, tearing through her flesh like a beast. Most of all, she remembered the pain, how it felt like a piece of her had been ripped to shreds, how she writhed in a pool of her own blood for what felt like hours.
She sat in the stillness, waiting for the pain she had been expecting. Every second dragged on, each moment heavy with anticipation, until, slowly, the realization began to dawn on her: it wasn't coming. Her eyelids fluttered open, the world around her swimming in a blur. The ringing in her ears was deafening, a relentless buzz that muffled her thoughts and made it impossible to focus.
Tentatively, her gaze shifted down to her own body. Her fingers moved with a kind of careful curiosity over her clothes, feeling for any sign of injury, praying for the warm, familiar sensation of blood-but it never came. The tips of her fingers lingered, waiting for them to turn red, but the absence of that expected response only deepened the confusion already gnawing at her.
Then she heard his strangled groans. Her eyes darted to the ground.
Drake.
Storm dropped to the ground beside him, her body moving with swift urgency as she crawled toward his writhing form. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned him with unrelenting focus. They flicked from his chest to his stomach, then traced their way upward, settling on his head, every muscle in her body tense with anticipation.
He was holding his right shoulder, the blood seeping through his fingers. She released a breath of relief. It would hurt like a bitch, but it was the best outcome she could have hoped for.
"Your boyfriend has shit aim," Drake gritted through his clattering teeth.
Storm's gaze snapped to the side, and there he was-jogging toward them with that grim, implacable expression etched across his face. A rush of raw anger surged through her veins. She clenched her fists, every muscle in her body screaming for release; she wanted to shout at him, to hit him, to demand why he even dared to show his face. But the sharp, biting edge of reason cut through her fury.
