7
“Ineed to hit something.Lots of somethings.”
Raaevik stared down at Emily in the corridor outside her quarters.She looked like she was vibrating, still wearing the shimmering blue silk robe from the docking bay, creased and twisted as she clenched and unclenched her hands.
“You cannot fight in that,” he said, his voice too loud in the still corridor.“The silk will tear, and you will trip.”
“I don’t care about the dress,” she snapped.“I care about not exploding.”
“I care,” he countered.“If you trip, you will break your neck, and then I will have to explain to the Emperor why his mate is dead because she was angry at her mother.”
Letting out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob, she spun on her heel.“Fine.Give me two minutes.”
She vanished into her quarters, the door sliding shut behind her
He stood guard, staring at the grain of the metal wall opposite.His jaw ached from clenching.She was hurting, and there wasn't adraanthingthing he could do about it.
The door slid open, and then there she was.The silk was gone, replaced by grey leggings and a loose black tunic she must have scavenged from station stores.The clothes were meant for a Latharian adolescent, or perhaps a very small adult of a different species entirely.On her, the tunic hung off one shoulder, and the leggings were rolled at the ankles.
She looked ridiculous.She looked dangerous.She looked…perfect.
“Find me a place where I can break something without getting arrested,” she said.“Please.”
The please was what did it.It wasn’t a plea.It was a warning.If he didn’t find her an outlet, she was going to create one right here in the hallway.
He should have refused.Protocol dictated that he keep her safe and away from anything resembling a weapon.
But he remembered the look on her face when her mother had dismissed her, and the hollow sound of her boots on the deck plates as she walked away.
She was drowning in helplessness.He knew that feeling—the itch under the skin that screamed for impact, for pain, for anything to prove you were still real.
“Follow me,” he said.
He took her three levels down, not to the main training arena, but to a smaller auxiliary gym near the maintenance shafts that the guard used.It smelled of old sweat, with a metallic tang of recycled air that the scrubbers never quite managed to clear down here.
It was empty apart from a few maintenance bots recharging in the corner.
Tapping the access panel beside the door, he locked it behind them.The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the hum of ventilation and the rapid, shallow rhythm of Emily’s breathing.
“Here,” he said, gesturing to the expanse of grey mats.“You can hit the bags or the practice dummies.”
She walked to the center of the mat and spun around.“No.I don’t want to hit a bag.Bags don’t hit back.”
He frowned.“You wish to spar?”
“I wish to fight,” she corrected.She raised her fists, tucking her thumbs in wrong.“With you.”
“That is not a good idea.”
“Why?Are you afraid you’ll hurt me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.Maybe if I hurt, I’ll stop thinking.”She bounced on the balls of her feet in a clumsy imitation of a fighter’s stance.“Come on, Raaevik.You’re the Emperor’s big bad bodyguard.Show me what you’ve got.”
She lunged.
It wasn’t a sophisticated attack.It was a wild, telegraphed swing aimed vaguely at his chest.He didn’t even move his feet.He just caught her wrist, absorbing the momentum with a slight shift of his weight.
