Page 18 of The Broken Dawn

"Carry on then." Christian turned away, dismissing Jakob as if he were suddenly invisible. "Your Highness, shall we continue with your practice?"

Harald raised the rifle again, trying to hold onto the feeling of Jakob's corrections. His next shot wasn't as good as the one Jakob had guided, but it was better than before. He could still feel the ghost of those hands at his waist, the warmth of that breath against his neck. The memory made his skin prickle with awareness even as guilt churned in his stomach. He'd gotten Jakob in trouble, just by needing his help.

The rest of the practice passed in a blur of gunpowder and frost-numbed fingers. Harald couldn't help tracking Jakob's movements at the far end of the line—the fluid grace of his reloads, the quiet confidence in his stance. Every shot dead center. No wonder Christian had felt threatened enough to punish him.

When the order came to clear the weapons, Jakob worked with the same care he'd shown all morning. He was the last to return his rifle to the rack, as if he could ward off Christian's attention through sheer military correctness.

"Dismissed," Christian called. "Eliasberg, report to the armory at 1400 hours."

"Sir, yes, sir." Jakob's voice betrayed nothing. He turned on his heel, marching away, his back straight enough to please the most demanding drill sergeant.

Harald lingered, pretending to adjust his gloves. Surely Jakob would look back, give some sign that the library hadn't been a dream, that this morning's closeness had meant... something.

But Jakob disappeared around the corner of the barracks without a single glance behind him.

"Interesting morning, wasn't it, cousin?" Christian's voice made Harald start. He hadn't realized his cousin was still watching him. There was something new in Christian's expression, something that made Harald's chest tight with sudden anxiety.

"Just ordinary rifle practice," Harald managed, forcing his voice to stay even.

"Ordinary." Christian drew the word out, testing it. "Yes, I suppose that's one word for it." He smiled, wolfish and knowing, though what exactly he thought he knew, Harald wasn't sure. "We should get to breakfast. Wouldn't want to be late for class."

Harald fell into step beside his cousin, the crunch of their boots on the frosted ground the only sound. But he could still feel the phantom pressure of Jakob's hands, still hear that low voice in his ear. Let the rifle become part of you.

He was in so much trouble.

The armory smelled of gun oil and cold stone. Jakob worked methodically down the row of rifles, breaking each one down with practiced movements. Remove the bolt, check the action, strip and clean each piece. The Mausers were good rifles, but temperamental—they needed regular attention to prevent the firing pin from sticking or the magazine spring from weakening. He could do this in his sleep—had done it half-asleep plenty of times, those early mornings in his mother's garden when the rabbits were at their boldest. The work was soothing, or should have been.

Shift your weight forward, like this.

His hands faltered on the bolt assembly. Stupid. He was being stupid, letting his mind drift back to the firing range. To the way the prince had felt, solid and warm against his chest, trying so hard to excel at something that clearly terrified him. The way his breath had hitched when Jakob adjusted his stance⁠—

The rifle's bolt clattered against the wooden workbench. Jakob swore under his breath, grateful for the armory's empty shadows. He was supposed to be being punished, not... whatever this was. Remembering how His Highness— Harald, his mind whispered—had smelled of wool and leather and early morning frost.

He'd been so careful in the library. Professional. Distant. And then this morning he'd gone and put his hands on a prince. What had he been thinking?

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Jakob's heart leapt before he could stop it. But the tread was too heavy. Sergeant Nilsson appeared in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the floor.

"Making progress, Eliasberg?"

"Yes, sir." Jakob gestured to the row of gleaming rifles, their barrels catching what little light filtered through the high windows. Proper military precision in every movement. As if being a model cadet could make up for the way his pulse had quickened at those footsteps, hoping...

The sergeant grunted approval and moved on, leaving Jakob alone with the rifles. And his thoughts. Always dangerous, that combination.

He rolled up his sleeves, trying to focus on the next weapon. The metal was cold under his fingers, like the morning frost had been. Like the prince's gloved hands, trembling slightly when Jakob had adjusted his grip on the rifle⁠—

No. Your Highness. He had to remember that. Had to hold onto the formal distance, even in his own mind. The library had been... a moment of madness. Poetry and shadows and Harald's voice gone soft. But that wasn't real. Couldn't be real.

This was real: the weight of the rifle in his hands, the smell of gun oil, the ache in his shoulders from hours of detailed work. Simple. Practical. Safe.

Let the rifle become part of you, he'd told the prince. As if he hadn't felt the words catch in his throat, rough with something that had nothing to do with proper shooting technique. As if his hands hadn't lingered a heartbeat too long, memorizing the solid warmth of Harald's— His Highness's—shoulders under the wool uniform.

Another rifle. Another careful disassembly. If he focused hard enough on each tiny component, maybe he could forget how His Highness had looked at him in the library, all earnest interest and shy smiles. How different from this morning's rigid formality, both of them playing their proper roles. Which was the real⁠—

Footsteps again, but different this time. Lighter. Almost tentative. Jakob's hands stilled on the rifle barrel as a shadow passed across the high window. He knew that walk—had spent all morning watching it, the way His High— Harald moved, careful and contained, like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.

Don't look up. Don't look up. Don't look up.

He looked up.