Page 26 of Godless Saints

Sawyer turned, brows lifting. “He isn’t?”

I slid the mask back down, mesh cool against my burning face. “Practice.”

Sawyer’s grin turned vicious. “Oh, good. We’re lying now. Fantastic. My favorite game.”

I raised the foil. “Fencing.”

“Sure,” Sawyer said. “Because when Thorn heirs corner Aster princes during initiation, they’re usually asking for footwork tips.”

Advance. Feint. Lunge. Miss.

Again. Sweat stung my eyes. The foil sat wrong in my hand, heavy and unfamiliar. First time in years.

Jal-haess-eo-yo.

You did well.

I reset my stance. Knee forward. Wrist loose. Shoulder steady. Advance. Feint. Lunge. Miss.

The point slipped wide. My jaw tightened. He had practiced. Was Saint Lucia real? Of all men, it had to be him. A Thorn. Rival. The one who saw the real me under the polish.

If I admitted it… then what?

Advance. Feint. Lunge. Miss.

Fuck. I was drunk. Bad judgment. I built the whole connection from basic attention and one smile. It should have comforted me. It didn’t. Because if Saint Lucia wasn’t real, he had no reason to keep showing up. No reason to butcher my language.

Advance. Feint. Lunge.

Miss.

Foil dropped.

I watched the dummy. Point buried uselessly off-target.

I’d spent my whole life learning how to hide behind House of Moon perfection. He made me wonder why I still bothered.

I should want him gone. The Thorn heir who watched me unravel. Or the man from Saint Lucia who made me forget the mask. Fuck. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to be real.

CHAPTER 7

CILLIAN

Jal-haess-eo-yo. The words looped. Again and again. Exactly like his mouth shaped them. The training hall had no windows. Just stone walls, bags on chains, and the metallic smell of old blood in the seams.

My fist clipped the bag late. Chain snapped. Sweat burned my eyes. Sloppy. Moon’s cold voice lived in my skull, fixing my pronunciation like I was another mess he could tidy and discard. I wanted it cracking open for me. Breaking.

Christ.

Look at me.

I slammed my fist into the bag again. The chain rattled hard. My knuckles split wider on the next hit. Heat stung beneath the wrap. Since Saint Lucia, it had been Moon. Every fucking second.

The way the words poured out of him until I finally had to tell him to come up for air. The way he’d stared at me for one suspended heartbeat before kissing me. Then he ran.

I stepped back from the bag, chest heaving, and flexed my hands. The fresh split on my knuckle opened wider. Blood welled up, bright against the black wrap. I should have found that annoying. I did. Mostly.

Between Saint Lucia and initiation I’d fucked guys. Eager hands, greedy holes that squeezed just right for thirty fucking seconds. Came hard. Rolled off bored and furious every time.