Page 41 of On Broken Bonds

"We'll continue this conversation when you're slightly less convinced of your impending demise."

I turn to see the great, twisting plant rise up again, its thorned tentacles reaching for me. I beat back the fucking plant with my sword once more, wanting to return to the conversation with the woman behind me.

“Come on,” I gasp, twisting and slicing at the roots, a single bead of sweat running down the center of my back with the effort. “What kind of fertilizer are they using out here?”

“Since when do plants try to murder people?” Lady Nyx pants, dagger out, but doing no good. I chuckle to myself at her indignation and turn in time to see her duck, barely dodging a vined tendril grasping for her. Regaining her footing, her gaze flits to mine, and she says, “This wasn’t even on my list of things that could happen⁠—”

“Ri-ight,” I grunt, swinging the sword up over my head with a small roar. When I bring it down, the blade notches into the plant’s thick trunk. Over my shoulder, unable to see her, I ask, “And that’s the attitude you’re taking into the trials tomorrow?”

My sword is stuck, and I yank, trying to free it. Behind me, the woman lets out a sound of anger and I turn, ducking as a sizable rock sails over my head and hits against the plant, knocking it back and freeing my sword.

I flash her an incredulous look. “A rock?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” she asks, now breathing hard enough that my eyes are instantly drawn to her chest.

“Well, you almost took off my head, so⁠—”

But she cuts me off, her eyes widening and shifting to a place over my shoulder, “Watch out!”

I’m tired of this song and dance. Even when I was human and could enjoy the occasionally roasted vegetable, I still wasn’t a fan of plants. I’ve never been one to take a stroll through the gardens.

Already, I’ll have to spend time cleaning the sticky green residue from my sword before the morning. With a growl of anger, I turn and hack at the bush like a lumberjack, cleanly severing the trunk.

“Wait!” the woman calls, but it’s too late, the plant is already falling to the side like a tree felled in the middle of the forest, the movement seeming to suck at the air around it.

“What—?” I gasp, when I feel the sudden weight of her hand on my shoulder.

“Help me up!” she insists, and though my normal inclination is to ignore orders, this time I don’t.

This time, I act instinctively, catching her around the waist as she leaps off the ground. She leans farther than she should, reaching for the plant, and I instinctively steady her against me.

With nimble fingers, while being held in my arms, she plucks at the flower, managing to pull it back and against her chest before the plant crumples to the ground, turns to ash, and melts into the dirt.

For a passing second, there’s nothing but the sound of our breaths, the faint whistle of the breeze through the garden, and the heavy beating of her heart echoing through my body like a ghostly reminder of the once-working organ I used to operate myself.

“Oh-kay,” I say, clearing my throat and interrupting the silence. Together, we stare at the spot the monster once occupied. “Talk about needing a green thumb.”

She laughs, the sound warm and unexpected in the cool night air.

Then she squirms.

I realize I'm still holding her.

My arms are braced beneath her legs. Her body is pressed against mine, close enough that I can feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the leather.

Far too close.

Slowly, I lower her. Or at least, that is my intention. As she drops lower, her balance falters. Her hand catches on my shoulder, and instead of stepping neatly away, she slides down the front of my body.

Every inch of the movement feels far too deliberate despite being entirely accidental.

Her fingers drag over my shoulders. Her chest brushes mine. The curve of her hip catches against me before she finally finds her footing.

For one suspended moment, neither of us moves.

The garden falls strangely quiet.

Nyx's eyes lift to mine, wide and startled. The moonlight catches in the hazel, turning the gold flecks brighter. Her lips part as though she's about to say something, but no sound comes out.