Chapter 13
Aoife
The training zone shifts the second Leo and the other trainers step into the Circle.
Gloves freeze mid-hit. Boots stop grinding the mats. Even the weapons racks go silent, like the air itself has stopped breathing.
Leo’s voice rings out, calm, sharp, final. “The Ring has chosen.”
My heart snags on his words, catching between beats. The blade in my hand slips slightly as I adjust my grip.
All around me, heads turn.
Conor stands a few feet away, rolling his shoulders and straightening his spine. His jaw locks like he’s biting back what he already knows.
The names come out one by one, slow, deliberate, like an executioner reading a list.
Conor O’Brien.
Matteo Messina.
Lara Petrov.
Han Sun.
Felix Reyes.
The chosen. One from each empire.
My gaze slides across the room until it catches him. Matteo.
No surprise. No shake. No sign he’s even listening. Just that half-wicked smile. Calm. Confidence. Waiting, as if he’s always known.
He stands with his arms folded, wraps still stained with the ghost of old training, jaw shadowed in stubble and bruised by fresh heat.
The smile on his face like the devil is finally invited to play his game.
Not cocky. Not smug. Just ready. When he looks across the training pit at Conor, I feel the heat between them, one war paused for a different battlefield.
Leo isn’t finished, what else can he say to make this night even more horrible. “To keep spirits high,” he adds, “the council has decided on something more…casual for today. A friendly test between families.” He steps back, and Dante, one of the Petrov trainers, steps forward.
“Each family will send someone to represent in each of the following tasks. Think of it as a warmup for the hell to come.” Everyone murmurs, students buzzing now.
Dante lists the challenges:
1. Blind Weapon Assembly – speed and precision. Disassemble and reassemble a Glock… blindfolded.
2. Target Recall – throw five knives at five spinning boards, each with a different symbol. Hit the correct one. Memory under pressure.
3. Silent Kill Drill – sneak across the room unseen and "eliminate" your target with a red-marking blade. Stealth and speed.
4. Disarm Race – opponent is armed, you're not. Disarm them before you’re taken down. Quickest win.
5. Break the code - be the first one to break into the system.
I look around at all the families talking, working out which family members to send for each task. I take a step back, because I won’t be picked for anything, I still suck.
Before all this started I had an argument with my trainer because I asked for a smaller blade, I wanted the handle to fit in my hand, and he laughed, and said I was asking for a death wish. Asshole.
Blind Weapon Assembly is the first one, and Conor steps forward. I know he’s good with a gun, but I don’t know what everyone else can do. I watch, and Conor smiles as he’s the first one to step back. That was easy.
Target Recall, I try to hide the smile when I see Milo step forward. If Matteo is scared of what he can do with a knife, I already know this is going to be good. Everyone else steps forward, and Milo insists on everyone else going first.
Cillian’s arms move like a machine. Precise. Cold. Ruthless. He hits three of the five targets perfectly. Missed the fourth. Hit the fifth as it was spinning out. Not bad. But not perfect.
Alina Petrov smiles faintly after watching. “Close,” she says. “But not clean.” As she steps forward, everyone cheers when she hits four of them.
Milo steps forward, smiling. “You might want to take notes.” He winks at her and doesn’t even look at the board to see where the symbols are, but he looks at the ones Leo wants him to hit.
He plays with the knife in his hand, moving it between his fingers as if it’s a pencil and won’t cut him.
He tells Leo to start spinning them, he turns and throws.
Everyone waits for the boards to stop. Before they do, Milo bows.
Matteo and Marco laugh. Fucking amazing.
Silent Kill Drill, now this one no one knows who the target is, but I watch Rosa walking around like a woman would in a bar preying on her target. I can learn a lot from her, and as good as she is Lara is the first to hit her target.
Disarm Race, Matteo steps forward into the ring barefoot, shirtless, and grinning like a wolf. The opponent lunges. Not even three seconds and Matteo has him pinned, weapon twisted out of his hand, red paint slashed across his throat.
The timer stops. Everyone stares.
Leo smirks. “Fastest time on record.”
Matteo walks back to his corner like nothing happened. Just another day, another kill.
Break the code, Marco steps forward, sits on the chair, looks at the paper, and one minute, that’s all it took one minute for him to walk back to his brothers, while the Irish are still working on it. I know this was going to be our weak spot, no one really likes to sit in front of the computer.
Leo tells everyone the games are over, and that’s the night and we will be back tomorrow for more training.
I walk away quickly, not wanting to see Matteo staring at me, because Conor has been annoying me about it. So, it’s better I keep away from him, even though I want to be near him.
The wind is softer tonight, it’s whispering. Low and distant, like the sea is dreaming. There’s a hush over everything, like the world knows it needs to be quiet.
I sit on the rooftop edge, boots dangling, the worn stone warm under me from the heat of the day. Below, the cliffs meet the ocean in a slow, rhythmic crash. The lighthouse blinks in the distance, one slow flash at a time.
The knife trembles in my hand. Matteo was right. It feels wrong in my grip, like trying to dance in someone else’s shoes. My trainer won’t let me have a smaller one. He thinks it will get me killed.
I sigh, flipping it between my fingers slowly, trying again to balance it on the edge of my index. It slips, clattering on the stone.
“Trying to kill yourself with the wrong weapon?” His voice is a low purr, rolling through the quiet. Goosebumps rise across my skin. I don’t turn.
“You always sneak up like that?” I ask, picking the knife back up then examining the edge.
He walks over slowly, boots scuffing softly on the rooftop. Then he lowers himself beside me with a grunt, his arms draping over his bent knees, the smoke from his cigarette dancing with the wind.
“Only when you look like you’re thinking about throwing yourself over again.” He takes a long drag, and my eyes move to the red glow, as he inhales.
“I wasn’t.”
“Mm. Not tonight, at least.”
We sit in silence. Not awkward, just silence.
The kind which hums under the surface, pulling at your skin and sinking into your bones. The kind of silence that knows something deeper is happening here. The wind rustles around us, bringing salt and cold with it, but between us there is only heat.
“You like the challenges today?” I finally ask, voice small.
He nods. “I loved it.”
I snort. “You enjoy it too much.”
He turns to look at me. “It’s not enjoyment. It’s purpose. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think.” Maybe I don’t understand his level, but I have an idea about it.
Another silence.
He notices the bruises, the ones under my eyes and the faint mark across my cheekbone. His gaze lingers, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches over slowly and takes the knife from my fingers.
“Still using this?” he murmurs, examining the handle.
“It’s mine,” I reply.
“It’s wrong for you.”
“So you keep saying. My trainer said anything smaller will get me killed.” Matteo's lips curl into a smirk, and he takes another drag as he continues to examine the knife. Like his thinking on how to make it smaller for my hand.
“You’re gripping too hard. Here.” He takes my hand, rough fingers sliding over mine, adjusting the blade. His touch is firm but slow, like he’s afraid one more push will shatter something already cracked.
“Relax your fingers. Don’t fight the blade. Move with it. You control it without choking it.”
“Sounds like you're talking about something else,” I murmur, trying to lighten the heat rising under my skin. He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he holds my gaze.
Dead on. Unmoving, and suddenly the knife doesn’t matter anymore.
His fingers brush mine again. Slow. Intentional.
“You’re going to get me killed,” I whisper.
His voice is rough gravel. “No, but you’re going to ruin me.”
He’s close now, thigh pressed against mine, hand still over mine. His breath grazes my lips, warm, whiskey-sweet, heavy.
He doesn’t move. He waits, as if needing permission, waiting for me to close the distance.
The moment drags, heavy with everything we can’t name, but I want him. Even if it’s only once more. I move a little closer.
His mouth meets mine, not gentle, not harsh, but deliberate. Slow. Devouring. He presses closer like he needs to memorize me. His hand slides into my hair, fingers curling tight, angling my head like territory claimed. My lips part, and he deepens the kiss.
My hands tremble as I reach for him. One slides to his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. The other fist in his shirt as he pulls me closer, devouring like he’s been starving for me.
He pulls back an inch, forehead against mine, breath ragged.
“This is a mistake,” he says, voice raw, like speaking the words wounds him.
“I know,” I whisper, leaning into him anyway.
His thumb traces my mouth, slowly, like he can’t decide whether to erase the kiss or mark me with it.
“But I’d make it again, little lamb,” he breathes. His tone cracks, half apology, half warning.
He turns away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.
“If this happens again…” He exhales roughly. “I’ll be the one leading you to the slaughterhouse.”
The words gut me. My body locks, eyes stinging.
He doesn’t look at me, he already knows what it means to touch me, what it costs us both.
It isn’t only restraint. It’s the rage coiled inside him, twisted, hungry, burning. I saw it in the fight. I feel it now, this close.
He’d kill for me.
I blink back the tears.
It wasn’t only a kiss.
It was a countdown, and the first tick has sounded.
We sit side by side, the sea below, the wind whispering. He smokes in silence, eyes on the night sky.
And still, it’s his presence, not his words, that lingers long after the lighthouse blinks again.