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Instead, Killen had said just one word, and the Kän?dôr and his douche goblins had run with their koya between their legs.
Even when he trained with her, making mistakes and wielding his sword with less tact, he still simmered with power and intrigue.
It was undeniable.
She was drawn to the man.
His rugged features and muscular physique appealed to her primal instincts, stirring a hunger deep within her.
The way he moved, the strength in his muscles, was intoxicating.
She was mesmerised by how his sweat glistened on his skin, an invitation to trace her fingers along his sculpted form.
Like a moth to a flame, she was unable to resist the magnetic pull between them.
Yet she had to because focusing on him would only take her eyes off her prize.
He interrupted her musing. ‘Your blades? Impressive. You hide them well.’
‘They conceal themselves well.’
He cocked his head at her. ‘They’re sentient?’
‘To some extent.’
‘I can believe that. I saw the one you had at his throat change form midair. It’s freakish, khany’s.’
She gave him a lingering look and sucked down some of her drink. ‘They are special. I’ve worked with them so long that I can’t remember not having them nearby. I first learnt how to use the SHärds under my father’s mastery, for he was already a great Shotel warrior. Until -,’
She clamped her lips shut and blinked her eyes. Then, his gentle touch brushed her forearm, setting off a rush of unexpected emotion. Forcing her to bite her inner cheek to stop herself from moaning.
With a set jaw, she took another pull of her drink. ‘Enough about me. Tell me about your hawkstone. Where the heck does one pick it up from?’
Sana’a had avoided asking too much about it until now, wanting to keep a professional distance between them, not keen to get too personal, too deep with him. Now, that careful sentiment didn’t seem to matter a whit.
He gave her a searching look, jerked his chin to acknowledge the switch of the topic and leaned back, sipping from his glass. ‘Not your local marketplace, that’s for sure.’
‘So where did you get it?’
‘It’s a birthstone you’re born with. All Katánians have one, but as you’ve worked out already, mine is different, more potent.’
She raised a brow. ‘Potent? Ego much, Kíríga?’
He bestowed her with another of his sloppy, sensual lip twists. ‘Believe what you will. Tis true. It has power even beyond me.’
‘And to think I thought you Katánians were just obsessed with looks and wealth, plastering jewels on your foreheads, in the height of exhibitionism.’
He leaned forward. ‘Touch it. I know you want to.’
The calculating, tempting, pushy energy coming off him in waves was the same he radiated during their intense sessions. When their bodies moved in sync as they danced with their swords.
Every clash and parry sent sparks flying, mirroring the electricity that crackled between them. Time ceased to exist in those moments, and all that mattered was the palpable tension that engulfed them.
Like it was now, as he stared at her, daring her, his muscled hand propped on the bar.
‘Daggit, I’ll stroke your fokkin’ forehead.’
Cursing under her breath, she reached a hand to the dermis above his glittering eyes. His skin was scorching as her fingers traced around the jewel, which was smooth with diamond-like facets.
