Evie
“You want to learn to fight like me?” her boss asked with a healthy dose of skepticism.
“I don’t expect to ever be an expert, but yes, I’d like to learn to fight like you, or at least like the Malevolent Guards.” Evie was still reeling from her indirect confession of love and how foolish it had been to show her hand at the exact moment he’d toppled the whole deck.
“Then have the Malevolent Guards teach you!” he argued, the rain soaking his white shirt and pressing it to his chest. Internally, she sighed. There was nothing like a man in a puffy white shirt, and wet to boot. And in a picturesque setting underneath the night sky. This was very not fair.
The stars were still visible through the rain clouds, and the torches surrounding them hadn’t gone out. They had an evening to kill, and if she wasn’t going to spend it in his arms, then she would take some delight in throwing sharp things at his head.
She made a show of looking at her nails. “Very well, then. I’ll ask Daniel the Philanderer.” She twirled away from him, only to be snatched back against hard muscle and locked into place. One large arm fell across her middle and the other over her upper chest, just below her throat.
“Firstly.” His voice was low in her ear, making her toes curl in her boots. “Don’t turn your back on me. I am your adversary. If I’d been a real opponent, I could’ve killed you a hundred different ways already.”
She went to jam her heel into his foot, but he caught her thigh in his hand, making them both breathe heavier—from exertion, surely; nothing else. Yet there was a pooling warmth in her stomach when his breath brushed against her neck. It made her blush everywhere. “Your leg is not a wind-up toy. You’re giving the person the chance to stop you.”
“But I need the force—” she started breathlessly.
“Screw force. One quick jam of your heel into their toes is all you need.
Now show me.”
“I can’t!” she squeaked.
He tsked, slightly mocking. “Now, Sage, I’ve seen your heel do a fair amount of damage. Surely—”
“I meant because you’re still holding my thigh, sir.”
He dropped it like it burned, and she stumbled and turned, her foot slipping and tangling with his. His entire body bowed, hands catching her waist just as she fell into him, gripping his shoulders for balance. He went stiff and uncomfortable where they touched.
She started to back away but gasped when he jerked her toward him, fingers tightening against her, his warmth pressing through the thin cloth of her corset. When she looked up, dark pain shadowed his face, stronger than she’d ever seen before. “What have you done?” His eyes were searching hers for something he couldn’t understand. “What enchantment is this?”
The desperation in the whispered plea hypnotized her. The dagger slipped from her fingers…and landed on his foot.
The hilt end hit first (thankfully), and then she was free of his fierce grip (miserably).
The crackle of the flames was easier to hear as the rain dissipated. The fruits on the trees surrounding them seemed to emit a soft orange glow, like little lanterns. An owl perched on a branch above watched them, making small noises as unicorns trotted by, free of saddles and free of stables. This land was beautiful freedom. A place to untether yourself and exist as completely free.
So few people did—herself included.
Trystan dropped a sword into her hands. “Simple blocking.” With deliberate slowness, he brought the blade down, giving her ample time to come up with her own and stop it.
She managed to block him again, and again, and again. “Trystan.” His name fell out of her mouth like she used it all the time, but she didn’t, obviously, or her boss wouldn’t look like he was on the brink of losing his marbles. “Did you hire me because you felt sorry for me?”
The sword came down harder this time, but she blocked once more, both hands on her hilt. He drew away and said coolly, “Do you not recall me telling you I am not in the habit of charity? What makes you think I’d make an exception for you?”
She scrunched her nose and tapped her lips with her finger, thinking he’d earned this.
“You kept my scarf.”
Slam.
He did not hit her blade head-on as he had been—this blow caught closer to the tip, nearly knocking it from her hands. She could see the realization dawn on him with startling swiftness. It hit Evie at the same time what that knowledge revealed about her.
“You little snoop! Did you go back into my chambers to riffle through my things? What next? Do you intend to peruse my undergarment drawer?”
She furrowed her brow. “That would be silly.” She paused, then added, “Any sensible person knows to always look in someone’s sock drawer first.”
He seemed alarmed. “Did you look in my sock drawer?”
Her mouth twisted. “No—wait, why? What do you have in there?” she asked, a little intrigued.
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, that vein in your forehead definitely concurs with that statement.”
Slam.
She blocked him, and he continued: “I did not keep your scarf, Sage. I stole it. I do it with lots of things. Artifacts, money, jewels, food.”
She snickered.
Trystan slammed his sword down, his loose shirt sticking to the muscles in his arms and chest as he moved, dampened by a combination of sweat and leftover rain. He twisted his blade against hers, and she stumbled closer to him, his sword locking hers into place, their faces inches apart.
“Okay. Focus,” he said, a quiet command, all business. It made her sick with giddiness, with unequivocable glee. This closeness was dangerous; she was forgetting what he said, how he’d dismissed her barely an hour ago. “Break free of me, Sage.”
Oh, that I could.
The doubt must have been drawn in the twisted curve of her face, because he pinched his mouth in defiance. “No. Stop. I can see you overthinking. Your mind is a terrifying wonder, but it is not always needed in situations like these. Sometimes, you can rely on instinct. You can trust yourself. How would you get free?”
Her face went blank, and then she kissed him.
