Wilder Hawthorne
‘ F uck,’ Wilder muttered again as he put as much space as possible between him and the infuriating alchemist. He left their camp behind, his cheeks aflame and his erection still straining against his pants.
The sensation of her backside pressed against him was seared into his mind, as was the feel of her arching into his embrace.
‘Furies save me,’ he groaned, tipping an entire canteen of cold water over his head, hoping it would cool the inferno within.
It didn’t.
His whole body was trembling, longing for contact, for release and – against his better judgement – for her .
I sought her warmth in the night , he told himself. That’s all.
Wilder glanced back at their camp, spotting her tending to the horses. He had to hand it to her: she moved like a warrior of Thezmarr already. Her steps were light, her motions controlled and fluid. All her supposed training had paid off in that respect.
He tried to ignore the swell of her breasts, the swing of her hips and how she flicked her braid out of the way as she went about her tasks.
He had sprung away from her as though burned, but in truth it was all he could do not to pull her closer, and by the Furies had she fitted him perfectly.
Gods, he needed to do something about his cock. Desire pulsed so fiercely he had half a mind to tend to himself, just to get it out of his system, just to take the rock-hard edge off.
He muttered another curse. That would hardly help. It might even make the problem worse. Instead, Wilder inhaled through his nose and unsheathed his swords. He swung them with unyielding strength, revelling in the comforting weight of the steel.
He’d burn off his frustrations the Warsword way.
Shedding his outer layers and planting his feet wide, Wilder started taking himself through his usual set of drills.
Relishing the kiss of the wind as he swept his blades through the air, he tried to lose himself in physical exertion.
It was a relief not to be training in his armour.
The breastplate, in particular, bothered him, rubbing against his shoulder.
Armour was one of the gifts a Warsword received upon completion of the Great Rite, but by the time Wilder had passed, the kingdom of its origin, Delmira, had fallen.
As such, his armour was a poor imitation of Vernich’s and Torj’s, the latter receiving the last supplies from the famous armoury.
Wilder made do with what he’d been given over the years, but it irked him nonetheless.
Squaring his shoulders, he attacked, slashing his swords in a flurry of movement, striking and retreating into a dance he knew all too well.
But no matter how many times he sliced and carved his imaginary opponent, his thoughts kept coming back to her, and it wasn’t long before he sensed her gaze on him.
He ignored her presence, not nearly finished with trying to blow off steam.
And yet he was drawn to her. Her persistence, her innate questioning, the way she now studied his movements, as though committing them to memory.
Regardless of the outcome at Harenth, he knew deep in his bones that the alchemist wouldn’t give up, and he begrudgingly admired that.
Wilder looped both blades around, delivering a would-be deadly blow before twisting his hips and bringing both swords across, beheading the invisible enemy.
Only then did he glance up at the alchemist, who watched on with intense eyes.
The sooner she got what she wanted, the sooner he could be rid of her, and he could go back to hunting monsters in the darkness.