Chapter 14 #2
“Looking for someone?” Lory’s heart almost dropped into her boots when Falcrest snuck up on her as he had perfected over the past weeks.
Wheeling around, Lory had her dagger half-drawn as she faced him.
“If you pull your weapon at that speed in a real attack, you’ll be dead before you can behold your attacker’s handsome face.”
Heat pooled in Lory’s core at the way he smirked down at her, firelight dancing in his eyes.
“You sure you want to go there, Khayrivven?” she drawled. “Don’t forget, you just fought me off with a torch for my vicious attempt at killing you by sucking the air out of your lungs with my mouth. Don’t tempt me.”
The laugh coming out of him was so genuine, so unguarded, Lory’s heart beat a little faster to catch up the beat it had missed.
“Do I tempt you?” Again, his hand wandered up to her face, pausing right by her cheek like he had in the dream.
“No?” Why it sounded like a question, Lory couldn’t even begin to fathom. Falcrest’s grin widened. “At least, not that way. To suck the air out of your lungs, yes. I’d do that again any day.”
Instead of drawing his dagger and stabbing her in the stomach, the way he might have with breakfast stragglers, Falcrest took her hand and pulled her along to a door at the end of the hallway.
With his free hand, he extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked the door the old-fashioned way, before guiding her into an office the size of the dormitory.
Bookshelves lined the walls on one side; a heavy, cedar wood desk stood at the center, and behind it, a plain, wooden chair.
But the thing Lory couldn’t look away from was the broad window opening to a view on the training yard where students she identified as thornlings were climbing with ease the obstacles her own peers knew might cost them their lives.
Guardians, they were fast. Skilled. Not as good as Anees, or Phantoms Washings and Bleek, not to speak about Falcrest—because there was no one as good as him—but they didn’t hesitate before jumping, nor did they lose their footing on the steep barriers and facades they were supposed to climb.
“If you want to live to become like them, you’d better get your magic to make an appearance again. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Lory noticed, only as she turned her head, that Falcrest had let go of her hand and was standing behind her shoulder, watching her observe the thornlings master what she still feared.
He flashed a dangerous smile. “Besides, don’t call me by my first name. People might get the wrong impression.”
“Like what? That we could be friends?”
Had it not been for the small twitch in his features, she would have missed his flinch.
“You and I—friends.” He shook his head once, hair flying as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Not going to happen.”
She hadn’t expected that it would hurt, but deep down, a part of her settled like a rock in wet sand and got stuck, even when she pinned a defiant smirk, turning just enough to face him.
“Because nobody wants to be friends with you?”
Again, that twitch of his features she might have missed had she not been staring so intently at him.
“Because there are many ways this could play out, Lory. Friends is definitely not one of them.”
Why his words made her blood rush to her head was beyond her. Perhaps it had something to do with the way fire kept dancing in his eyes even when the torchlight was long shut out in the hallway.
But more importantly: “If you can call me Lory, I can call you Khay.”
The fire in his eyes flared higher.
“Or Khayrivven, if you get any ideas of telling stories about what I’ve done to you with my mouth.”
“No one calls me Khayrivven anymore.” His hand flipped up to her cheek, halting an inch from her skin. “And I’m not proud of telling lies about what happened, but I’d rather you live long enough for me to figure this out.”
“And by this, you mean my magic?” Lory pushed his hand aside with her fingers, rocking back on her heels.
“Among other things, your magic.”
Lory wondered if she imagined he was leaning forward the slightest bit, as if subconsciously following her movement while he kept his feet planted where they were, hip-width apart, immovable, solid.
“Tell me what exactly they know.” That was why she’d come here to begin with—to learn how she’d supposedly assaulted him.
“About your magic?” His brows knitted together as he peered down at her like she had demanded he confess to a crime.
“About the kiss.” It was embarrassing enough to ask. Did he have to make her spell it out?
“You mean if I enjoyed it? To make the story work, let’s say I didn’t—obviously not if I set you on fire with a torch.” The smugness entering his expression brought on the urge to throttle him.
“You did set me on fire, all right, but not with a torch. It was that Almelyte gas. Why use it to begin with? And if you suspect light magic is what I have, why not try triggering my powers again? Why wait and risk getting executed at the practical exam?”
Falcrest heaved a breath so deep, Lory thought he might suck the air from her lungs without ever touching her mouth.
“Have you ever considered it might not be about you?” He unfolded his arms, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers, eyes closed.
“Have you considered it might be me who isn’t ready for the truth? ”
When he opened his eyes again, they were molten steel framed in midnight silk, his lips pursed tight as if he couldn’t speak the words.
Lory studied him for a while, watching the warring emotions on his features.
“Trigger my magic, Khayrivven.”