Silver Elite

by Dani Francis

When you’re petrified on a daily basis as a child, there aren’t many things left to fear as an adult. Except, perhaps, awkward conversations. I would rather fight a cougar barehanded than subject myself to an uncomfortable exchange. Truly.

Ward Z, as far west as you can get. It’s one of the asset wards,

Primes don’t have enhanced gifts. They also don’t experience any physical signs when someone infiltrates their thoughts, whereas Mods feel it like an electric shock. People like him should be on guard.

The Aberrant, as they call us. Or silverbloods, when they’re feeling nice.

We didn’t ask to be this way. Some thoughtless war a hundred and fifty years ago released the toxin that made us like this. We didn’t have a choice in the matter.

This guy is…inconceivably attractive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better-looking human, male or female. I’m momentarily lost in his cobalt-blue eyes, peering down at me from beneath thick lashes. His hair is dark, swept away from flawless, symmetrical features that could’ve been chiseled out of stone. Just the right amount of stubble shadows a strong jaw, and one corner of his mouth bears the indentation of a dimple. I wonder how pronounced it gets when he smiles, although judging by the cold, dangerous glint in his eyes, I get the feeling he doesn’t smile often.

Silverblood Purge

His voice is velvet dipped in honey. “Tell me to put my hand back.”

“I’m not like this with women,” he mutters. “I don’t chase. I don’t fucking beg.” He groans. “But you…You make me want to break down your defenses.”

“I need to know what you taste like. Let me have it, Dove.” I lick my lips, and he groans again. “Let me. Fucking. Have it.”

the next time I came to school and he shouted Witch—” “You beat the shit out of him.” My mouth falls open. Laughter tickles my throat. “How did you know?” His fingers skim a path along my jawline, leaving prickles of pleasure in their wake. “Because I think even at twelve years old, you were a force to be reckoned with, Dove.”

My jaw drops. “You sent him away?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because he touched you this morning.”

I know which way I should feel. But it’s not what I feel.

Of the fifty-six recruits who started the Program, thirty-six remain.

could take me right here—hell, he could take me out there, in front of everyone—and I wouldn’t care. The need is too strong.

The blood vials. A tsunami of horror slams into me. “They’re experimenting on them?”

Our gifts aren’t always a gift, little bird. Sometimes they’re a curse.

“And if he’s there?” “Assassinate him.” “What?” “Joking. That won’t accomplish anything.” “It won’t?” “A dead General doesn’t dismantle the system. If you want to enact change, you need to do more than just take out the leader. You need to deprogram the minds. Root out the ideology.”

Ideas are weeds. Don’t let them spread. Although I suppose Adrienne’s take has a slight variation. She doesn’t want to simply pull the weeds. She wants to plant something new in their place. I suppose I can admire that.

hate everything about this place. It’s like every inch of it has been carefully curated to convey a sense of detachment and isolation.