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“I’m here,” I said finally, shaking off the residual fog. After nearly drowning, I’d been living beneath a perpetual haze, wondering why I’d been able to see in a void of pure darkness.
So far, I had no good answer.
“Harlow is staring at you with a look I can only describe as annoyed.”
I lifted my head across the dining hall and toward the thin-lipped lieutenant, finding his auburn hair tousled as though he’d spent hours running his hand through it. I could sense the immense displeasure radiating from his every pore.
“Eh, he’s probably just angry I didn’t drown,” I remarked dryly, gulping down the last of my water. I slammed the empty cup on the table just as the gong sounded. More training awaited.
“Soooo.” Jake knocked my shoulder, his tone suggesting mischief. “You ever gonna tell us what happened after the damnedCommanderof the Knights lifted you in his arms and personally brought you to the bath?”
Patrick choked on his water, and Nic snickered. Inwardly I groaned. I’d known this question was coming.
“He had to get her warm,” Patrick offered, coming to my rescue. I gave him a grateful smile, and he winked. Under the table, his hand squeezed mine in reassurance.
“Yeah, totally normal behavior coming from our superior. You sure you don’t want to tell us something, Ki?” Jake asked, waggling his dark brows suggestively.
“What can I say? I can’t help the fact that I’m his favorite.” I smiled as if I weren’t inwardly panicking and my hands weren’t growing slick with sweat. “Maybe if you trained harder, he’d pay you the same attention.”
Jake held a hand to his chest in mock affront, and Pat rolled his eyes.
“Regardless, the man looked livid when he left the bath,” Jake added, shoving the last of his meal in his already full mouth. “So maybe you aren’t a favorite anymore.”
Nic elbowed his friend, and they exchanged knowing grins. “You’re just pissed he didn’t carryyouout of there in those muscular arms of his,” he teased.
“Damn right I am,” Jake scoffed, all smiles.
The gong sounded once more, and I used it as an excuse to drop all the talk of Jude and his oh-so-muscular arms.
“We better get to it then,” I said quickly, shoving off from the table and following the other recruits. There was some residual teasing, which I expected, but I shut it out.
Once they saw they’d get no rise out of me, they hurried along as Isiah led us above the Knights’ sanctum and to an open field. Today, we would be practicing archery.
Once the targets were set up, Carter assisted the less skilled recruits, demonstrating the proper stance and adjusting their fingers on the bow to perfection. He grumbled every so often when they failed to strike the mark, but when they did hit the bullseye, the man’s eyes gleamed with pride.
When I nocked my arrow and aimed at the target, my thoughts ventured back to the topic at lunch. Nic had been right about one thing. The commander had been pissed, his face distorting into something unrecognizable. Of course, that image made me think about the harsh words we’d exchanged.
I released my arrow, missing the bullseye by a half inch.
Great. Now Jude was screwing up my aim.
It was only after dinner, when I shuffled after Patrick to the dorms, that I saw him.
Jude leaned into the shadows of the corridor, a wavering sunfire illuminating his scarred face. Both arms were crossed, his bare forearms rippling with muscle and painted with old wounds.
I paused there, in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the curses of the recruits who nearly stumbled into my back.
Jude had been livid because of one thing—my safety. I’d been equally as angry, but then again, no one had ever really cared about my safety before, certainly not to that extent. Instantly, I softened.
Maybe we both didn’t know how to communicate properly. We were cut from the same cloth, and being friends—or whatever we were—was brand new.
We locked eyes.
I didn’t mean what I said. I wondered if the sincerity of my gaze relayed such truth. If he could decipher what I couldn’t say aloud.
Perhaps he grasped the coarse regret eating away at me, because Jude lifted his chin ever so slightly. And then he gave me a barely perceptible nod as if he, too, wished to apologize, his throat bobbing with the effort.
In our frozen moment of apology, where all else faded to dust, I recognized the pain etched into every crease, every taut muscle, and each scar he wore. I saw through the mask of apathy, a sliver of pure light shining through.
