Page 22 of On Broken Bonds

He’d appeared far too early, pounding on my door and ordering me to get ready so we could begin training. The moment I emerged in one of my usual dresses, he’d taken one look at me, muttered, “That’s what I thought,” and marched me halfway across the city to this abandoned building he’d called the weapons room.

Apparently, it belongs to a friend of his. Apparently, I’m meant to spend the morning learning to wield weapons I’m still not entirely certain I can bring myself to use.

And apparently, I’m expected to do it dressed like this.

I turn side to side, squinting at the warped reflection. The leather skirt layered over the trousers is laughably short, barely reaching my thighs. Rather than hiding anything, it seems to draw attention to exactly what lies beneath.

The entire outfit clings in ways that make heat creep up my neck. I’m used to the weight and structure of gowns, to layers of fabric dictating every movement. This feels alarmingly different. Too light. Too freeing.

When I slide my hands down the front of my thighs, I expect heavy fabric to brush my fingers. Instead, there’s only smooth leather hugging close to my skin, and the unfamiliar freedom of movement sends a fresh rush of warmth to my cheeks.

“It has a skirt,” the man says from the other side of the door, his dry tone doing little to soothe my embarrassment. “That’s rather ladylike compared to what most fighters wear.”

“The skirt is far too short.”

“Trust me, it’ll make it easier to run, to fight, to move.”

He’s probably right. And yet, the words still leave my mouth, “I’m not sure I can wear pants.”

His sigh is immediate and long-suffering. “Nyx, just come out and let me see how bad it is. A friend of mine made that for you, and she’ll be deeply offended if you hate it.”

I freeze.

“She?”

“Yes,” he says, impatience bleeding into the word. “She’s a leather worker. She was delighted to have another woman to fit for, so if you’re about to insult her craftsmanship, I’d advise choosing your words carefully. I’d really hate for her to be–”

The knowledge that this outfit was made by a woman makes the shame melt away, and when I again consult my reflection in the shield, I imagine her hands carefully working the leather, crafting the skirt, and feel a surge of pride, independence, and boldness.

So I step out from behind the changing screen, my chin tipped up high as my mother would expect.

“Upset…” He trails off when his eyes fall upon me, his mouth closing, then opening, then closing once more. I ignore the weight and heat of his gaze, swallowing past the strange fluttering low in my stomach.

This was never a problem at home, with only Ivor, Hilda, and my sister for company. But now, with a man constantly near, I seem painfully aware of him. Of the way his presence shifts the air around me. Of the warmth that creeps through me whenever his attention lands too fully on my skin.

“Seems to fit you just fine,” he finally says, his voice rough, his brows pulled low, his dark brown eyes seeming almost black.

I shiver and clear my throat, wanting to change the topic away from my body and the material covering it, clinging to it. “I realized something strange… I never did ask your name.”

This seems to draw him out of his trance. “What?”

“Well,” I say, stepping around him and over to the wall of weapons, examining them as though I have any idea what they might do. “If we’re going to be on a team together, we should know each other’s names, shouldn’t we?”

When I turn back to him, his expression is unreadable. “I suppose,” he says. “So, yours is Lady Nyx…?”

“Lady Nyx Nocturne,” I say, bowing out of habit more than decorum. We are far past that, it seems.

“Thorian Valehart,” he says, pointedly not bowing to me. Instead, he sticks his hand out toward me expectantly. Slowly, I reach out and take it, trying hard not to react to the electric rush that shivers all the way down the length of my spine when our hands meet.

“Good to meet you,” I rush to say, pulling my hand away. “And now comes the part where you teach me how to hold the dangerous end away from myself, I presume? Because if the plan is simply to point me toward danger and hope instinct takes over, I should warn you I possess remarkably poor instincts.”

“No,” he says, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Though avoiding self-inflicted injury is certainly high on my list of objectives. I told you last night, we’re training. It won’t make up for your complete lack of experience, but it gives us better odds than simply throwing you into danger and hoping for the best.”

“Right,” I agree weakly as he leads me to the other side of the room, where a mat sits on the floor almost suggestively. It doesn’t seem to bother Thorian at all, who turns to me and clears his throat.

“All right,” he says, his eyes flicking down to my waist, and my body is flushed with so much heat it’s hard to think straight. Then, I realize he’s looking at the dagger I have cinched there. “Since that’s what you’ve come with, we might as well start training with the small weapon. Show me how you’d unsheathe it.”

I blink at him, then reach down and find the knife on my belt, hands fumbling with the strap as I try to remove it.