IÂ wake to the smell of sticky buns.
Just as I have every morning after Mak went to 1nd the men who chased me into his arms. Though, I’m not entirely sure what came of his hunt – and I’m beginning to fear I may not want to know.
The night still haunts me, as does the look on Mak’s face when he went to look for the vile group. The things they were saying, the sound of their footsteps pounding behind me – I hope to never be so frightened again.
My eyes Rutter open in time to watch him plop a plate onto my stomach, occupied by honey-drenched dough that glistens in the dull light. I sit up, stretching with my usual smiling yawn. ‘Day three of breakfast in bed? I’m so spoiled.’
‘Yes, very.’ He says this dryly, as he does most things. ‘Another day, another demand.’
I nod towards the sticky bun awaiting him on the work table. ‘At least this demand bene1ts the both of us.’
‘Well, it sure as hell doesn’t bene1t me 1nancially,’ he grumbles. ‘You’re getting to be expensive.’
Unfolding myself from the cocoon of blankets, I get to my feet with a groan. The blue sweater hanging from my shoulder swaddles me in warmth and, more distractingly, his scent. He smells of something akin to 1re – not smoky, per se, but similarly bold and lingering. Like a weapon incarnate, leathery and lethal.
He’d thrown the sweater at my head two nights ago after likening my chattering teeth to the incessant hammering of steel – or something equally as dramatic.
Nevertheless, I burrow my chin into the worn threads, 1nding comfort in the fraying collar. Or perhaps it’s something far more symbolic that soothes me. Perhaps it’s him.
How odd, considering that he may be the least soothing person I’ve ever encountered. But these past few days have felt particularly peaceful with him by my side.
I talk. He listens. He has somehow managed to keep my worries about Pae at bay.
Well, I can never be entirely sure if he’s listening or not. A common misconception about me is that it’s always easy to talk. But, truly, it depends on who is listening. And though I can never be sure that he’s doing just that, I still 1nd it incredibly easy to spew my thoughts to him.
‘What are you working on?’ I peek over his shoulder, peering down at the scraps of metal littering the table.
He throws me one of those glances, the type that encompasses every dry emotion in his being. ‘Nothing that concerns what you are supposed to be working on.’
‘Oh, come on!’ I take another bite of sticky bun before circling him. ‘Your uniform is coming along just 1ne.’ He opens his mouth, stretching the scar gracing his lips. I hurry to add, ‘And it will be done in time for us to pay our visit to the castle.’
He pushes a hand through his hair, revealing that streak of silver and reminding me once again of Pae’s absence. ‘So, it will be done in three days, then?’
‘Yes, yes,’ I assure enthusiastically. ‘You have such little faith in me, Mak.’ ‘Rightfully so,’ he counters. ‘Need I remind you of the tears that were shed
over a button last night?’
‘Buttons are the bane of my existence,’ I say simply. ‘That was the only appropriate response.’
‘Naturally.’ His sarcasm hardly fazes me as I nod towards his work in question. With a sigh, he reluctantly says, ‘I’m testing some knife designs. This one,’ he lifts a thin blade from the table, ‘Rips open into two knives.’ He demonstrates, 1tting his 1nger into the metal loop at the top before spinning it into his palm. Sure enough, there’s a soft click before another blade appears on the opposite end.
‘And this one?’ I ask, pointing at one of the several knives lying harmlessly on the wood.
He pushes my hand away, giving me a look. ‘Your limbs are no longer allowed anywhere near my weapons.’
I attempt to hide my smile and nod at the knife instead, urging him to continue.
‘These four actually combine into one.’ With that, he begins assembling the blades, hooking their handles together to create a deadly star of sorts.
My heart stops when he throws the contraption at the far wall, forcing a gasp from my lips. The steel manages to slip between the crumbling bricks, sinking deep into the wall.
I blink in awe as my heart pounds back to life. ‘That was… magni1cent.’
He allows himself a dry chuckle. ‘I didn’t think you’d enjoy these sorts of things.’
I cross my arms. ‘Just because I’m a lover, doesn’t mean I can’t admire the 1ghters.’
He strides over to the wall, pulling the knife out with a grunt. ‘That’s right. I have yet to make a 1ghter out of you.’
I snort. ‘Trust me, Pae has tried. She used to beg me to carry a knife but…’ I trail oI at the sudden lack of space between us. His long strides have led him straight to me, his body so close that I can smell the leather clinging to his clothing.
I open my mouth to spew something that will ease my nerves – as I typically do – but it’s his voice I hear.
‘Now,’ he says slowly, his tone low, ‘what would you do if I held this blade to your stomach?’
I laugh lightly. ‘Well, you would never do that, so I haven’t exactly thought of
—’
He grazes the blade against my ribs.
He leans in, whispering in a way that has my face heating. ‘You think too
highly of me, hun.’
I swallow. ‘This is absurd. I will never 1nd myself in this situation—’
‘As long as you live in the slums,’ he pauses, his gaze Ricking slowly over me, ‘you will most de1nitely 1nd yourself in this situation.’
‘Now, tell me what you would do.’
I tap a 1nger against my lips. ‘Well, I would 1rst try to reason with them.
Politely, of course.’
‘Plagues.’ Pinching the bridge of his nose between calloused 1ngers, he shakes his head. ‘You may actually be hopeless.’
He drops the knife, allowing me to 1nally take a full breath. When he raises his palms in front of me, I raise my eyebrows in question. ‘Come on, show me a punch.’
‘You want me to punch your hands? That seems a little painful.’ ‘You’ll be 1ne,’ he sighs.
‘I meant for you.’
That almost earns me a smile. ‘I think I can handle it.’
I straighten, balling my hands into tight 1sts. My knuckles meet his palm, and I beam up at him. ‘There. How was that?’
‘As terrible as predicted,’ he says simply. When his hands 1nd my hips, I startle at the 1rm feel of them. ‘This,’ he twists my hips with little eIort, ‘is how it should feel when you throw a punch.’
I almost laugh. At this moment, all I feel is the grip of his hands on my hips. I seem to be numb to everything but the feel of him.
I hadn’t realized he was speaking until one of his palms slips into the small of my back. ‘… twist with your arm to throw all your weight behind it. Straighten your back and engage your core. Your whole body throws the punch, not just your arm.’
He steps behind me then, trailing his 1ngers around my waist as he does so. I can hardly suppress my shiver, at this foreign feeling. Tucking his head close to mine, he breathes, ‘Try again. I’ll guide you.’
I swallow, mostly my pride but also my sudden wave of nerves. When my arm thrusts forward, he pivots my hips, moving in time with the swing. The heat of his body presses against my back, and I’m suddenly breathing far too hard for a single punch.
‘How’d that feel?’ he murmurs.
I vaguely wonder if he can detect my heart pounding through the back he’s pressed against. I’m not used to being touched – not like this at least. This feels like the type of intimacy I’ve only ever dreamed of; the type you fall asleep fantasizing about.
But here he is, breath on my neck and calloused hands cupping my hips. I can’t help but memorize the moment, study the feelings he stirs inside of me. Feelings for someone so annoyingly aggravating. Someone so opposite my very being.
I clear my throat.
It’s completely ridiculous, really. I’ve only known this man a handful of days and am already absurdly aIected by his every move. It truly is a curse to feel so deeply, to so daringly deem someone worthy of my aIection.
Mama always did say I was much too eager for my own good. My impatience ensures that I won’t gradually fall for someone. Instead, I lose my balance, tripping until I face-plant into inevitable failure.
‘Again, Dena.’
I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
Dena.
The usual indiIerence he wears falters when I whip my head round to face him. I can see the realization in the way his brown eyes widen in time with my own, in the feel of his body tensing against mine.
No one but Pae has ever cared enough to call me by anything but my given name. Until now, that is.
The name itself feels like a caress, stilling my pounding heart as though he’s run 1gurative 1ngers down it. Warmth Roods my body at the sound, at the sheer implication of the word. Because it was formed by familiarity.
Nicknames blossom between acquaintance and something more. Though, I’m not sure where we stand on that spectrum. Or perhaps I’m being completely absurd and am completely overthinking everything—
I’m suddenly being spun around with 1rm hands that have found their way to my waist. My lower back bumps into the wooden table, trapping me against the distracting density of him.
He gives me that look. The one where he tilts his head down with a dull twist of his lips. ‘I hope it was your 1ghting technique you were daydreaming about.’
I tilt my head up, apparently unable to keep my eyes from tracing the scar cutting his lips. ‘What else would possibly be on my mind?’ I smile, each word breathy.
‘You tell me.’ He leans in, bracing his hands on the table either side of me. I feel his arms brushing my sides and curse myself for the lack of self-restraint I possess. ‘You’re looking far more 1dgety than normal. I can’t say I enjoy it.’
I clear my throat before pasting a smile onto my face, pretending as though I’m not suddenly thinking of him as something more than a begrudging partner. ‘Guess I just can’t contain my excitement for this very enjoyable training you’re forcing me to do!’
He blinks, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘All right, remind me to teach you how to lie next.’ I nod before his hands 1nd my hips once again, sending a shock all the way down to my toes. ‘Now, keep swinging until I’m satis1ed you could hit me.’
I punch. His 1ngers grip my hips.
I punch. His hand Rattens against my back. I punch. His lips almost form a smile.
And so begins my doomed trip into Mak.
