Page 107 of Facade

I was frozen, as my attention went to his companion.

His presence closed in around me—dark, intoxicating, inescapable.

Far beyond anything I’d ever felt from another male. Where Aiden tried to convince others of his power through bullying and abuse, this male radiated pure power.

A current of electricity ran beneath my skin as he raked his gaze over me, a spark flickering to life inside my hollow being.

He was the most beautiful male I’d ever seen—massive, muscular, towering even by our kind’s standards. His sleeveless black top clung to him, the leather stretched tight over a body carved from stone, accentuating the bulge of his tanned biceps.

My gaze climbed higher—over the ink on his shoulder, to the hard lines of his jaw, full lips, and high cheekbones, framed by wavy white hair that curled at the base of his neck.

His eyes—electric blue, threaded with silver—were intense enough to frighten anyone else, but not me. His quiet dominance called to me in a way I didn’t understand.

I straightened as his strong jaw clenched. He, too, assessed me. Sweat beaded on his brow as if they’d already been out here a while.

“Evanee, I want you to meet Malachai, he’s part of the King’s guard.” Aniah had motioned to the male on the right. “And this is—”

“Ryker.”

His deep, gritty voice sent another wave of excitement through me, my toes curled in my slippers as exhilaration skittered down my spine. I kept my head high as I unabashedly met his intense gaze, offering a nod in acknowledgment.

At the end of the introduction, they offered to train me.

I refused.

I thought that Aiden was playing a cruel trick on me, or testing me, fear coiling tight in my chest. But after much convincing on Aniah’s part, I hesitantly agreed.

We trained. And I felt more alive than I had in months.

I never saw either male outside of our lessons—not among the guards, nor in the servant quarters. Not even at the festivals I was graciously allowed to attend.

I once asked Malachai why that was, but he shrugged it off, saying it was just a coincidence that we never ran into each other. So I let it go.

After the first month, Malachai stopped participating in physical training and instead always sat with Aniah under one of the nearby shade trees, shouting advice from time to time. It made me feel as if I were alone with Ryker. And that excited me more than it should. It was a dangerous game, and I'd grown too comfortable with it.

In all of that time, Ryker was never much for words, yet we grew close. He'd share tidbits of his childhood in the ocean-side village on the other end of the realm. About an elder named Watka, who was like a Father to him, even though his own Father visited from time to time. He told me about his mother, who I'd learned died within the past year, and I could see the anguish he still carried in the vigor with which he trained during our lessons.

I told him stories in turn, about my own life. The countless times I’d sneak out to train with my crudely made weapons, and how my mother would react. It was one of those stories I shared that made him smile at me for the first time. It added to his already devastating features, sending my heart into a flutter. But the first time he laughed—the sound was straight sinful, making my belly tighten in a way I'd never felt before.

When I was around Ryker, I was able to escape my cage for a while as he shared his stories and taught me proper technique with a dagger, then with a bow. My favorite was when we worked on hand-to-hand combat. Despite my ferocity in which I'd go at him, he was always so careful when he'd flip me or pin me in the lush grass. Always deflecting my attack.

Then one day, things changed.

Ryker had been teaching me a defensive maneuver—how to get out of an opponent’s grasp. He grabbed me from behind, towering over me, hard body flush against mine as he told me to free myself.

I did as he instructed.

My heel stomped down on his boot with every ounce of strength I could muster.

I threw my head back—though I only reached his throat—and when his arms loosened, I spun, curling my fingers toward my palm to strike up into his nose with the heel of my hand.

However, he grabbed my fist and swept my legs out from under me, sending me crashing toward the ground. Only, he never let me crash; instead, he cradled my head so I wouldn’t hit hard, but as he lay on top of me, pinning me beneath his body, his eyes stayed locked on mine as his scent enveloped me and his thumb grazed my cheek.

After that day, it was as if a crack had opened in a door, and with each secret graze of our fingers or lingering looks, that crack widened.

Over that year, I saw the story unfold in my memories of unknowingly falling in love with him.

Each stolen glance.