C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N
Her scent drives me mad. It makes me lose control.
C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N
Olwyn
I t always surprises me how soft underfoot the mat in the training room is… considering how many times I have been thrown onto i t? —it feels a lot harder.
Iolas stands opposite me, a playful grin on his face. His stance is relaxed, his body language inviting and teasing.
“Ready?” he asks, twirling a small throwing knife between his fingers.
I nod, trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach. “Always.”
He laughs, a sound full of warmth and mischief as usual. I’m just grateful he’s not bringing up the knife play talk. “Good. Let’s see if you remember what I taught you last time.”
We begin to spar, the clinking of our blades filling the air. Iolas is quick for his size—even though he’s tuning his vampire speed down—his movements fluid and graceful despite his broad frame, and I really do need to concentrate to keep up. He moves with the ease of a predator, circling me with an almost playful lightness. His strikes come swift and precise, yet there's a teasing quality to them, as if he's testing my limits, pushing me to react faster, to counter with more force.
His eyes gleam with amusement every time I manage to block his strike, his grin widening as he effortlessly evades my counters. His confidence only spurs me on.
I can’t shake the thought that I need to be better—stronger. Especially after what happened in my room. Iolas’s blade glints in the sunlight as he steps forward, quick and sure. I counter, muscles burning with the effort, but he’s faster—always a step ahead. I pivot, blocking his strike, but he’s already moving, the smirk on his face widening as he presses me back.
He circles me, his movements a blend of ease and command, and I’m reminded how easily he could overpower me if he wanted to. The realisation sends a thrill through me. I’m not just sparring with Iolas—I’m testing my limits, seeing how far I can push before he pushes back.
After a few rounds, he steps back, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. With a quick, practised motion, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest. His muscles ripple under the sunlight drifting through the windows, the ridges and planes of his torso defined with the strength of a warrior.
My mouth dries, the words I was about to say slipping from my mind. His skin glows with a faint sheen of sweat, highlighting every contour of his powerful frame. The playful grin never leaves his face, as if he knows the effect he’s just had on me, and it only makes my heartbeat faster.
And he can hear it.
Cheeky bastard.
“You play dirty,” I narrow my eyes at him.
Iolas's grin widens. He twirls the blade in his hand, taking a step closer. “Only when it gets me what I want,” he purrs.
“And what if I did the same?” I tilt my head, enjoying the way his full lips fall a little as he thinks about it.
He stops twirling the blade, gripping it tightly as his gaze locks onto mine, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something else as he growls slightly. His voice drops.
“Careful, little witch.” He steps even closer, the heat radiating off his bare skin palpable in the narrow space between us. “You might not be familiar with knife play but keep teasing me like that and we’ll play a little game of our own.”
There it is.
My breath catches in my throat, the charged air between us sparking with a heat that has nothing to do with training. Iolas’s eyes darken, his gaze dropping to my lips for just a second before sweeping over the rest of me, lingering where my pulse beats visibly at my neck.
I can’t move. I don’t want to.
What is going on with me lately?
My heart pounds so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it, and the space between us feels almost unbearably tight. Then, almost as if waking from a trance, Iolas blinks rapidly and steps back, his expression twisting into something between frustration and restraint. He swipes a hand over his face, shaking his head as if to clear it, and I feel the cool rush of air fill the space between us once more, breaking the spell.
“Enough of this,” he says, his voice gruff as he forces a smirk back onto his lips, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Come on, Olwyn. Another round. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat, and take my stance, willing my heart to steady itself. But beneath my focus, there’s a simmering awareness of his every movement, a pulse of something more than just adrenaline. I push it down, reminding myself that this is just training… even if it doesn’t feel that way.
“You’re getting better,” he compliments, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Trying to flatter me?” I retort, blocking his strike and pushing him back. “Distract me?”
“Is it working?” he asks, his voice a purr that sends a shiver down my spine. I tighten my grip on the blade, refusing to let him see the effect he has on me. I meet his gaze, my breath steadying as I force a smirk.
“You wish.” It is working.
The door to the training room opens, and Altair strides in. His presence immediately changes the atmosphere, and I straighten, the air growing thick, especially after dinner last night. He watches us for a moment, his expression unreadable.
Why do I feel guilty?
“Iolas,” Altair says, his voice calm. “I’ll take over from here.”
Iolas gives a mock salute before brushing his hair out of his eyes, stepping back with a wink at me. “Good luck, little witch. Don’t miss me too much.”
I barely have time to process his words before Altair steps onto the mat, a set of small throwing knives in his hand. His eyes meet mine as he pulls one out, discarding the others and I feel a shiver run down my spine.
But I must see this through. He’ll only show me more if I keep up my side of the deal.
“Let’s see what you’ve learned,” he says, his tone challenging.
We begin to spar, and it seems so much easier in my training gear now. Or perhaps I am getting stronger. I notice the difference with every session.
Altair spars differently. His movements are precise and calculated, his strikes carrying more weight and intention. But he glides through the space like a dancer, or a large feline, like it’s only natural to him. He doesn’t hold back, pushing me to my limits. Each time I manage to block his attack or dodge his knife, he presses harder, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re holding back,” he accuses, his voice low and intense.
“I’m not,” I reply, panting slightly. “You’re just better.”
I am holding back, always feeling unnerved in his presence. Scared to get too close, but now I can’t for sure say why.
His lips curve into a small, predatory smile. “You can do better than this, love. Show me your strength. Or has your fragile human body reached its limits?”
Prick.
I grit my teeth, determined to prove myself. I throw my knife at him, but he dodges effortlessly, closing the distance between us. Before I can react, he sweeps my legs out from under me, knocking me onto my back. I gasp as the air is forced from my lungs.
Altair straddles me, pinning me to the mat. His weight makes me gasp, the heat of him penetrating my leathers and feeling like it soaks into my already warm skin. He holds a knife in his hand, spinning it in his hand as the blade glints in the dim light. “Pay attention,” he instructs, his voice a low murmur. “You’re not going to do any damage aiming where you are.”
He drags the flat of the blade lightly over my skin, starting at my throat. The cold metal sends a shiver through me, and I feel the sharp contrast between the blade and the heat of his body above me. “This,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper, “is a prime point. A quick slice here with witchsilver, and it’s over in seconds.”
He moves the blade down to my collarbone, tracing a slow, deliberate line along the bone. “Here, the subclavian artery. A precise cut can incapacitate almost instantly.” His eyes flick up to mine, watching my reaction closely.
My breath catches in my throat as he continues, the blade gliding down to my wrist, just above the sleeve of my leathers. He turns my hand palm-up, exposing the delicate skin.
“The radial artery,” he explains, pressing the flat of the blade against my wrist. “Cutting here is effective, but slower. It takes time for the blood to drain.”
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. His touch is both electrifying and terrifying, and it reminds me of the power a vampire could have over me.
But he isn’t done.
Altair shifts his weight slightly, and the blade moves to the inside of my elbow, over my clothes. “Another vulnerable point,” he murmurs, the tip of the knife tracing where the vein rests underneath. “Easier to reach in close combat.”
He continues down my body, the blade moving with practised ease. He slides it over my ribs, stopping just below my left breast and I inhale. “The heart,” he says, his voice dropping even lower and fangs on show now. “A well-placed strike here will be fatal.”
His words are sharp, precise, but it’s the way he lingers, the way his eyes darken as he presses the blade to my skin, that makes my breath catch. This isn’t just a lesson; it’s a test, and I’m not sure if I’m passing or failing.
The knife trails down to my abdomen, circling around my navel. “The aorta runs deep here,” he explains, his voice almost gentle. “A strike from below can reach it, but it’s risky.”
He presses the blade lightly against my thigh, just above my knee. Heat floods my body, and it takes all my willpower not to flinch. His eyes darken further, the blackness swirling with something I can’t quite name.
Gods I am depraved.
He inhales and his eyes flood with black. “The femoral artery,” he says roughly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Sever this, and they won’t be able to stand, let alone fight.”
I nod again, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I can’t tell if the shiver running through me is from the blade or the way his eyes bore into mine. There’s a thrill in learning these points of vulnerability, a rush of power that clashes with the fear simmering beneath the surface.
Last night’s conversation rushes into my mind, making the heat between my thighs ten times worse. I hear a small sucked in gasp from somewhere in the room, and suddenly I’m acutely aware of Iolas’s presence, his eyes on us. The thought sends another jolt through me—embarrassment, fear, I’m not sure which.
Altair’s fingers grip my chin, tilting my head back slightly. He drags the blade back up to my throat, resting it against the pulse point just below my jaw. He is breathing heavily, his own face inches above mine. “Understand?” he asks, his voice a rough whisper, the blade steady against my throat.
“Yes,” I say in a choked whisper.
“Good,” he replies, his eyes dark and intense. “Remember these points, Olwyn. They could save your life.”
“How do you know so much about anatomy?” I ask him, entirely too embarrassed by how breathy my voice sounds.
He smiles. “I have books from the human realm. Our bodies are basically the same. Although I heal faster.”
“The more you know about your enemy, right?”
The smile fades slightly. “Right.”
For a moment, we stay like that, the world narrowing down to just the two of us. Then, slowly, Altair pulls back, helping me to my feet. “You did well,” he says, his tone softer now.
I glance at him, surprised by the note of concern in his voice. “Thank you,” I reply.
Altair nods, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer before he steps back, clearing his throat as he catches Iolas’s twinkling eye . “Good. I’ll leave you both to it.”
I watch him leave, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Iolas walks back over, eyeing me knowingly and giving me a cheeky grin. “Told you it would be a challenge.”
“I think I’m up for it,” I say, the words feeling like a promise to myself as much as a reply to Iolas.
Iolas laughs. “But is Al?”