Callie’s POV
The clothes Britta had left at the foot of my bed looked like they belonged to a tactical strike team rather than a housekeeper. The ensemble included a pair of reinforced black leggings, a moisture-wicking compression tank, and a dark gray zip-up jacket that felt bizarrely heavy, as though the fabric had been woven with lead thread.
“To prevent thermal burns,” she’d stated crisply before turning on her heel and marching out of the Gold Room.
Dressing in the unnatural silence of the dampening field, I barely recognized the woman in the mirror. I didn’t look like Callie Black, the girl who worried about making rent and bought cheap coffee. Instead, I looked sharp and dangerous…like a weapon. Yet, beneath the tactical gear, my stomach was tied in a hundred terrified knots.
B
