Page 29 of Quiver

“Come on, Fletch.” Kylie’s voice dropped low, both in volume and vocal register. “At least show me where to put my fingers. I know you can do that.”

Blood ran hot through her veins, and her brain approached boiling point. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand what was happening so much as she was losing her ability to stop it. Kylie had always teased her, and she’d never failed to be affected, but this time as Kylie tried to snuggle in a little closer, Fletcher leaned into the subtle brush of her body. She eased near enough to see the fine strands of hair on Kylie’s neck stir on the breath of her exhale. Then, lining up her own lips next to her ear, she whispered soft but firm, “No.”

Kylie gasped slightly, and Fletcher stepped back completely.

“What?”

“I said ‘no.’”

She blinked a few times as if she couldn’t make the word compute, and Fletcher felt a prick of pride at being able to rattle her.

“You agreed to—”

“Practice, but you’re playing, and not even with archery. With me.”

“You used to—”

“I used to do and think a lot of things I don’t anymore. This isn’t a game to me. It’s my job. No, my career. If you’re not here to work, you need to go.”

“Okay, fine. I didn’t know fun was against the rules of archery.”

“Not the rules of archery, the rules of you and me.”

“All right, zero fun. Got it. Can we get back to not shooting?”

“No,” she said again, enjoying the word on her lips and the corresponding expression of consternation contorting Kylie’s beautiful features. “Come back tomorrow. I have a 10:30 riding class for a group of middle school girls, and you cannot be here when they arrive.”

“Why? I was a popular middle school girl myself at one point.”

“I remember.” Fletcher finally smiled. “You were a corrupting influence then, too. You couldn’t be trusted around impressionable young minds even when you were one.”

She didn’t even try to deny the charge. “Can you at least admit you used to love that about me?”

“Bye, Kylie.”

“See you tomorrow, Fletch.”

Kylie wasn’t supposed to show up at the barn before nine each morning to give Fletcher time to feed the horses and complete chores, but a week in, the routine had already grown stale. The calendar rolled over to a new year without much notice other than to remind her that time marched on without her. So far, she’d been afforded lessons in stringing the bow, setting up targets, basic shooting stances, string grips, and how to nock an arrow and draw it entirely without looking. Then she’d been made to repeat all those steps a bazillion times without firing a single shot. She wasn’t questioning Fletcher’s expertise so much as she was beginning to suspect her ex got some sort of thrill at wielding the power to frustrate her, and she didn’t even blame her. No one could fault either of them a little power trip, but, for better or worse, turnabout had always been fair play where the two of them were concerned, so today she killed the engine of her rental car halfway down the long gravel path up to the barn and walked the rest of the way.

The element of surprise, along with some persistent pressure, had worked well enough in the past. That, paired with Fletcher’s strong desire to get rid of her again. They both had their reasons to make this work, which was why she intended to already have an arrow in hand before Fletcher joined her. She remembered her way around the barn enough she could’ve walked this path in her sleep, and as she slipped quietly through the door, she didn’t even have to let her eyes adjust to the light before she sensed the attention of the horses shift toward her. She paused only long enough to place a little kiss on Winston’s cheek before continuing to the tack room and snagging the bow she’d been practicing with from among the many hanging from pegs on the wall.

It wasn’t hard to find a quiver, either. If she hadn’t known better, the barrels of arrows and other implements of destruction might’ve made her second-guess sneaking around this place, since the owner clearly had everything necessary to outfit an entire battalion of elite, if outdated, assassins.

She gave a little shudder at the memory of Fletcher shooting the arrow right under her chin.

Edging back out, she took a couple more steps toward the arena when she noticed Gabrielle wasn’t in her stall. She paused and considered her possibilities. If Fletcher’s training horse wasn’t here, neither was she, but before she could process any further, the sound of hoofbeats picking up speed set her senses on high alert.

Fletcher was in the arena, and clearly riding at a canter.

Her heart pounded faster at the sensory memories that awareness conjured. Hot days, muggy nights, the smell of hay, horses, and leather. She’d never told anyone for fear she’d seem silly or childish, but even into her early twenties, the sight of Fletcher riding toward her, proud and fluid in the saddle, tapped into something primal inside Kylie. As a teen, she’d felt a part of herself trapped in a tower, and while she’d never wanted anyone else to play the role of savior, she would’ve gladly let down all her guard to welcome a knight of Fletcher’s caliber. Strong, secure, honorable, with her curves and planes and bronze skin …

A kind of craving she hadn’t let herself acknowledge since those days pulled her forward. The fear of getting caught held nothing as sharp as the need to see her in action again. Peeking around the edge of the open doorway, her boldness was rewarded. Fletcher had three large targets set at equal distances down the middle of the arena, so she had significant room in front of them, and barely enough space behind them for Gabrielle to loop around. Kylie came in as she made the turn, seeming to reset. Fletcher slowed enough to nock her first arrow, then using only her legs, urged her mount into a higher gear once more.

She got off the shot well in advance, and by the time it’d struck its target, she’d already pulled another from along her flexing thigh. Rising slightly in her stirrups, she let this one fly once she was directly in line with the target and it shuddered on impact, but Fletcher could’ve hardly seen it, as all her attention focused on the final mark. Several things happened simultaneously. Now in a full stand, Fletcher snatched the third arrow, drew the bow, and twisted her body so she actually aimed behind herself. The move would’ve been beautiful even to the untrained eye, but for anyone who’d ridden a horse, it projected something akin to heroism, a feat of strength, grace, and precision.

As the arrow landed dead center, some forgotten emotion lanced through Kylie as well, hot, sharp, and low.

She applauded, no longer interested in concealing any part of herself.