35. Chapter 35 #3
I flipped the blade. Caught it. Let the torchlight run along its edge.
"If we die tomorrow—"
"We're not discussing that."
"—I just want you to know—"
"Amaria."
"—that I still think your sword technique is overrated."
He blinked.
Then his jaw went tight—not with anger. With the effort of not laughing.
"Overconfidence from a female who's never lasted more than three minutes against me."
"Three minutes is generous. You were breathing hard after two."
"I was pacing myself."
"Is that what you call it? Because from underneath you it looked a lot like struggling."
Heat flared in his eyes. "You remember the view from underneath me. Noted."
"Hard to forget. You were blocking all the light. You're enormous and in the way. It's your defining characteristic."
"You say that like it's a complaint."
"It's an observation."
"From underneath me."
"I will stab you in your sleep."
He set down his cup. Slowly. His eyes didn't leave the blade spinning between my fingers.
"Then why wait?" He stepped closer. "I'm right here. Awake. Giving you full permission."
My fingers faltered on the spin. "That's not how threats work."
"It's not how bluffs work." He nodded at the dagger. "Give me the blade, Amaria."
"Which one?"
"The one you're using as a security blanket."
I spun it faster. Smiled.
"Come take it."
He moved. His hand closed around my wrist and he yanked the blade up to his throat.
My breath stuttered.
"Better?" he murmured. "Now you're not fidgeting. You're deciding."
That was the game. He hadn't taken my control—he'd made it real. A blade against his throat wasn't a wall anymore. It was a question.
His hand was still around my wrist. His thumb resting over my pulse point like he was taking my measure from the inside out. His throat moved against the blade tip when he swallowed.
"You're insane," I whispered.
"You're the one holding the knife, Little Fox."
I should have pulled the blade back. Should have stepped away.
I pressed the blade a fraction deeper instead.
His pupils blew wide.
"Either use it," he said, voice dropping into that register—the gravel-and-velvet one that scraped down my spine like a match— "or put it away."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll take it from you." His grip tightened on my wrist. "And I won't give it back."
The dormant magic beneath our armor purred. The traitorous heat bleeding through was practically begging me to let it ignite.
I withdrew the blade. Spun it. Sheathed it at my thigh without looking.
He didn't step back. Neither did I.
"For the record," I said, "I could have killed you just then."
"For the record," he answered, "I know." His thumb still rested on my pulse. "You didn't."
"Next time."
"Promises, promises."
My own words, thrown back at me from the sparring ring. He'd remembered.
I shoved his chest with my free hand. He didn't budge—just caught my hand against his sternum, pressing it flat.
The metal of his breastplate immediately flared hot against my palm, the Marks threatening to ignite.
But beneath the armor, the male who held himself like carved marble had a heart going faster than mine.
"Your heart is racing," I said.
"You did just hold a blade to my throat."
"That’s not why."
"Prove it."
I leaned closer, until the distance between us was nothing but a breath. His heart kicked under my palm through the metal.
"Your heart says you're terrified," I whispered.
"My heart says a lot of things." His hand covered mine. Held it there. "I've learned not to listen."
"Tragic. I bet your lute weeps for you."
A breath escaped him. Surprised. Almost a laugh.
"How long have you been holding that one?"
"Since you said it. Saving it for maximum damage."
"It landed."
"Good."
His thumb traced a slow circle over my knuckles. The heat bleeding through our armor was climbing from a hum to a warning burn, the sixty-second clock ticking down fast.
I let it.
"If we survive tomorrow," he said, "I'll play for you."
"The lute."
"The lute."
"A tragic ballad about lost love?" I teased.
Something raw flickered behind his eyes—something he usually buried beneath six layers of control and three contingency plans.
"About found love," he said. "If you can stomach the sentimentality."
I lifted my chin. "I have a very strong stomach."
"I know. I've watched you eat Maxx's cooking."
I laughed. His almost-smile surfaced again. The real one. Small and private and only ever aimed at me.
I reached up and pressed two fingers against the hollow of his throat. Right where my blade had been. His pulse jumped under my touch.
"Still alive," I said.
"For now."
"For now."
I let my hand fall.
"Go back inside," I said again. Softer this time.
"After you."
"Always has to be an order with you."
"Always has to be a fight with you."
I turned and walked back toward the warm light spilling from the doorway. Maxx's voice was rising to a crescendo inside—the climax of the tree spirit story, from the sounds of it.
Eryndor fell into step beside me. Close enough that our shoulders brushed.
"Eryndor?"
"Mm."
"If you die tomorrow, I'll kill you."
A pause.
"Noted."
We walked back into the light.