Page 23 of On Broken Bonds

“A-ye.” When I look up at him, his hand is over his eyes, and he’s shaking his head.

“What?” I snap, face flushing. “I’m not like you, I haven’t grown up flashing a blade at anyone who talks against me.”

I expect him to be bothered by this, but when I glance at him next, having finally pulled the dagger from the sheath, his eyes are sparkling with amusement.

“What?”

“I wasn’t aware you were so familiar with my childhood.”

I’m not sure my face can hold any more scarlet, and I clear my throat, glancing at the knife in my hand, which feels too heavy and awkward in my grasp. Imagining the man before me as a child is difficult, and when I do, it only makes me wonder about the parents of such a brooding little boy.

Surely his mother and father aren’t thrilled about the prospect of him competing in the trials with me. In fact, if he has any family at all, maybe a wife, they must be prematurely weeping, grieving his loss.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Thorian says, reaching out and grabbing my wrist, which sends a jolt of energy through me, from both his touch and how the knife wobbles, nearly toppling from my hand. When I meet his eyes, he lowers his voice and says seriously, “We’re a team now. That means the only thing you can do is get better. And time is short.”

I suck in a deep breath, nod. Thorian releases my wrist.

“First, practice taking it from its sheath. The movement should be fluid, second nature.”

Feeling ridiculous, I do as he says, practicing the movements of slipping the knife from the sheath. I fumble and jerk the thing, struggling with the little leather strap that holds it in. The hilt feels slick in my palm, and each time I practice pulling it out, I’m terrified it will slide from my fingers. Knowing my luck, I’ll end up impaling my own foot. That would put a swift end to any hopes of entering the trials with this man.

Grunting his impatience, Thorian reaches over and demonstrates how I should flick my thumb to undo the leather strap. I’m entranced by how the sheath seems to defer to him, as though he only needs to think of the dagger for the hilt to nestle in his palm.

“Again,” he commands, and I feel ridiculous standing here in fighting leathers, only to practice pulling my weapon for nearly fifteen minutes.

But, finally, I can pull the knife from its hold without fumbling it.

“I’ll teach you a few simple moves,” Thorian says, moving me into the center of the room and turning, wrapping his large hand around mine in demonstration of how tightly I should hold the knife. “The first and most important element of fighting is that your grip on that dagger needs to be ironclad. You don’t want your weapon to become your opponent’s weapon instead. Especially considering your obvious lack of training. The other entrants will want to get the blade away from you. Without it, you’re powerless.”

“Why, thank you,” I mutter, which makes him grin and drop my hand.

At least now the flush on my face can be attributed to the exertion of running through the exercises with him. He should have no reason to suspect it’s from anything else.

Not the warmth of his hand on mine, or the way his lingering gaze trails over me like a physical touch. And certainly not the rich, heady scent of him. Oakmoss and amber sap, layered with something older. Dusty parchment. Leather bindings left untouched for decades.

The smell pulls me back to my father's study. To trailing my fingers along rows of books, breathing in the scent of aging pages and leather covers, drunk on the endless possibilities hidden within them.

“Perhaps that’s not quite true,” Thorian jokes, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Even without the knife, you’ll still have me.”

I roll my eyes and let out a short laugh, my hand falling to my side.

In a flash, something approximating a fraction of a moment, Thorian has moved, faster than the morning light streaming in through the large windows. At first, I'm too overwhelmed by the feeling of him so close, his chest against my back, his breath in my ear, to realize there is a blade at my throat.

He’s knocked the knife from my hand and brought his own up to the delicate pulse of my neck. Though he doesn’t bring the metal to my skin, the possibility of the sensation makes me shiver anyway.

“An important lesson,” he whispers, and I swear I can feel the brush of his lips. “Never let your guard down.”

Stupidly, all I want to do is to sink backwards into him. Let him hold me up. It’s like he said. I’ll have him during the trials. And there is undoubtedly a part of myself that wants him as much more than a fighting partner.

For what feels like an eternity, we stand together, our heat mingling, that sentence hanging in the air around us, lacing itself close with his scent. It’s the aura of the man himself, untrusting, hesitant, but tempting none the less. He’s a puzzle I’d like to pick apart, a maze which I’d try not to escape from, but to find its center.

I don’t know why I ask it, but I do, my voice nothing more than a course, weak whisper. “Even with you?”

He laughs, pulling back and severing the connection between us, as though my voice reminded him just how close we were. Tossing my blade to the other side of the mat, he turns, a flicker of emotion crossing his face as his dark eyes meet mine. “Especially with me.”

8

Nyx