Chapter 25 #2
He has me on the defensive from the get-go, forcing me to block each thrust, to thwart every attempt to disarm me. But I recover well. Bes is light on his feet, as I imagined he would be, and unlike me has no trouble wielding the broad sword. His corded muscles flex with the effort.
I find myself needing to catch my breath a bit more often than I’d like to admit and, before long, I’m drenched in sweat.
It carves half a dozen paths down my back and the middle of my chest, threatening to fall into my eyes and blind me.
My shorts start to ride up too, but I don’t dare pause to pull them down.
I’m concentrating too hard to pay any of it much mind, anyway.
When he lunges forward a step too far, I easily parry his attack and make a lunge of my own.
Bes is too quick for me, though. In one easy motion, he blocks my advance, hitting my sword with enough force to disarm me.
It clatters to the floor in defeat. Raising his blade, the dull point of it brushes the skin beneath my collarbone.
Chest heaving, I stare into his deep brown eyes. He stands only a foot away now, the clang of metallic blades echoing over our labored breathing.
That was… incredible.
Bes getting the better of me doesn’t disappoint me the way I thought it would.
He’s supposedly powered by some sort of magic, after all—if it’s true, he was always going to have the upper hand.
All I can focus on is how expertly he moved.
How lithe he was. After watching him do nothing but hit a soldier over the head with the butt of a gun, shoot one of the God Men and stab another in close quarters, I never would’ve pegged him as a well-trained swordsman.
I’ve underestimated him.
Refusing to break eye contact, I say, “You’re better than I thought you’d be.”
The left side of his lips tips up and he loosens his grasp on the sword. “You’re not as skilled as I thought you’d be.”
I narrow my eyes. He’s going to regret saying that.
Leaning in slightly, I plant one foot forward. The point of his dull blade bites into the soft skin underneath my clavicle. The cocky grin drops from his face and his grip on the hilt slackens further; he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I smile softly—then spin away, diving around him and tucking into a quick somersault, grabbing the hilt of my dropped blade in the process. Once I’m on my feet again, I turn on him, sword in hand.
I’ve caught him off-guard, like I hoped: he’s all but dropped his own sword and his jaw hangs slack. Taking advantage, I tap the back of his hand with enough force to make him drop the hilt. The sword tumbles to the ground.
A scattering of applause sounds from the others nearby, who were apparently watching us. Annoying heat warms my cheeks. I only had eyes for Bes.
He throws up his hands in defeat, a smile slowly pulling at his lips as I point the dull blade at his chest. “Well done.”
I bend down and hand him back his sword. “Finally, the recognition I’ve been craving.”
“Where’d you learn to do”— he whirls his finger—“all that?”
“Three years of gymnastics.”
He gets back into position again. “Why stop at three?”
I make the first move, thrusting forward, only to have him dodge my advance. I spear air.
“I could never stick to one thing,” I breathe out. “And not only because Nonna pulled me out of my weekly classes so often to go on expeditions that they insisted I quit.”
I feint again, my boots shifting beneath me. “I never found the one thing I loved to do and was actually good at, besides learning about ancient history and going after lost artifacts.”
Bes nods sagely before coming at me again. I block him down easily, the tip of his blade scraping the stone.
“You’re a restless soul, Miss Hawkins.” He gestures around the room with his free hand. “We all are. It’s one of the reasons so many choose to join the order.”
Yes, but they were given a choice.
Seeming to decide something, he tosses his sword to the ground. “I realize this isn’t where you wanted to be after all you’ve been through, especially against your will. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for it. If I could take it all back…”
Fury at my current predicament threatens to consume me again, but I squash it. Even if it didn’t turn out the way he hoped, Bes has only ever tried to keep me safe, and by all accounts was a pawn in Ansaldo’s plans, same as me.
I’ll let him feel sorry for me a little longer, though.
I step toward him, the hilt of the practice sword still clutched tight in my sweat-slick grip. “All of it?”
His eyes shift from my eyes down to my lips and back again. I wonder if he’s remembering when we danced together at the club, our bodies pressed together. Or how we nearly kissed in that alley near the port.
His eyes warm. “I suppose it wasn’t all terrible.”
I can’t help grinning. “That’s what I thought.”
Dropping my sword, I don’t hesitate to take a few more steps until I’m invading his personal space, leaving mere inches between us.
He’s not sweating somehow, but his cheeks are flushed, and his breathing hitches.
Whether it’s from the sparring or my proximity to him, I can’t be sure. I enjoy it all the same.
This close, I notice how unfairly long his eyelashes are; they frame his deep brown eyes with dull, golden flecks in them.
His skin is shockingly smooth, even this close up.
The longer I stare at him, the more I realize Bes is the kind of man someone like me could easily get lost in and happily never find their way out.
Lucky for me, he still has one foot forward from sparring.
I touch the inside of Bes’s right arm with my fingertips, and a shudder passes through him. My own heart beats faster, primed to betray me.
I won’t let it.
In one fluid motion, I shove my right shoulder into his chest, purposefully missing his stab wound, so that he faces away from me.
I tighten my grip on his upper arm and place my right leg on the other side of his.
With all the force I can muster, I lurch forward, pushing him toward the ground while remaining on my feet.
Surprise strikes out across his face the second before he hits the floor.
He lands solidly on his back, breath whooshing from his chest.
I can’t help it—I laugh. That was too easy.
Before I can celebrate my victory, he grips my right forearm and yanks me down on top of him. A yelp escapes from my throat at the impact.
Just as smoothly as I took him down, he rolls on top of me, straddling my hips. Binding my wrists with one hand, he thrusts them over my head, rendering me wholly immobile.
Jesus, he’s quick.
His chest heaves with exertion, but he’s smiling fully in triumph. A rare sight that takes my already-shortened breath away.
My body begs me to retaliate, but my mind has been stunned into stasis.
Chest heaving for an entirely different reason than the sparring, my core is an inferno as he continues to straddle me.
His weight presses into my hips intoxicatingly; I shift beneath him as the aching warmth inside me strays lower, grows deeper.
Gaze drifting to his lips, I want him to kiss me more than I’ve wanted anything before.
“You’re quick, Miss Hawkins,” he tells me, voice deepening. “But not quick enough.”
It takes me a moment to think of a reply, the heat of him heady in all the places we’re touching, and all the places we’re not…
“You can only claim victory if we’re on equal ground,” I argue, finally finding my voice. “For now, let’s call it a draw.”
He releases my wrists and sits back, though he doesn’t stand up. “Until next time then.”
Free from his hold, I sit up and place my elbows on the floor, bringing myself closer to him.
“Next time, you might find yourself on your back instead.”
We stare at each other long enough for something to shift between us. Raising myself up on my palms, I push back my shoulders so we’re close enough our chests nearly touch. His eyes soften and flick to my lips, his own parting—
“Hawkins, Belzoni, this is a training room not a whore house,” the trainer screeches. “Go cool off.”
Bes shoots to his feet, clearly flustered knowing we had an audience. I stand as well, refusing to be embarrassed by a sparring session, even if there was a little flirting involved. They can think whatever they like about me; I don’t owe any of these people a damn thing.
Wiping the sweat from my brow with the collar of my shirt, I salute the trainer. “As you command.”
She glares at me with unveiled contempt, the bulging vein in the center of her forehead enlarging. Someone’s a jitterbug.
Without acknowledging Bes, I head back in the direction of my room for a much-needed bath.
Maybe I’ll try the cold water this time, I consider, the heat from more than just the sparring lingering in my veins.