Chapter 10
The water bucket no longer made her arms shake.
Ember noticed the difference as she hauled the second load from the stream, running again now that the weather was warmer.
Two weeks ago—or was it three now?—this task would have left her trembling and breathless, her muscles screaming in protest. Today, she felt the burn, acknowledged it, and kept walking.
The cabin came into view through the trees, smoke curling from the chimney in lazy spirals. Home, her mind supplied, and she didn’t bother correcting herself. Whatever this place had been when she’d first woken in it, it had become something else entirely.
She set the bucket down outside the door and flexed her hands, studying them in the pale morning light.
Calluses had formed on her palms, rough patches where soft skin used to be.
Her father would have been horrified. He’d always insisted she wear gloves for any task more demanding than turning pages.
You’re stronger than they ever let you be.
The thought carried Rykan’s voice, even though he’d never said those exact words. But she heard them in every correction, every grudging nod of approval, every moment when he looked at her like she’d surprised him.
Inside the cabin, she found him crouched by the fire, feeding it kindling. He didn’t look up when she entered, but his shoulders shifted—a subtle awareness of her presence that she’d learned to read in the weeks they’d spent together.
“Water’s here,” she said, pushing through the door with the bucket. “I can get the third load before—”
“Eat first.”
She almost argued. The old Ember would have accepted the command without question, grateful for any excuse to rest. But the woman she was becoming wanted to prove she could do more, that she wasn’t the delicate creature everyone had always assumed.
The look Rykan shot her over his shoulder stopped the protest before it formed.
“You push too hard,” he said. “A warrior knows when to rest.”
“I’m hardly a warrior.”
“You are becoming one.”
The words settled into her chest, warming her from within. She set the bucket down and moved to the small table where he’d already laid out their simple meal. Food she’d helped gather, prepare, and store. Food that tasted like accomplishment.
They ate in companionable silence after he finished with the fire. Her gaze drifted over to the sleeping platform they now shared, although only to sleep. They hadn’t crossed that line again, not completely, but the possibility of it hummed between them constantly.
“Training this afternoon,” he said, finally straightening from the hearth. “You’ve been favoring your left side when you block.”
“I have not.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “You have. We’ll correct it.”
She wanted to argue, but he was probably right. He was always right about her form, her stance, her breathing. It should have been annoying, this constant correction, this refusal to let her settle for good enough. Instead, it made something fierce and bright flare in her chest every time.
He wanted her to be better. He believed she could be better.
No one had ever believed that before.
The afternoon sun hung low over the mountains, as she moved through the forms he had taught her, her body flowing from stance to stance with increasing fluidity. Her muscles knew the movements now, remembered them even when her mind wandered.
“Again.”
She reset and began the sequence once more. Block, pivot, strike. Block, pivot, strike. The repetition had become almost meditative, a rhythm that emptied her mind and filled it with nothing but the present moment.
He circled her as she moved, his eyes tracking every shift of her weight. She felt his attention like a physical touch—the heat of his gaze on her shoulders, her hips, her hands. It made her breath catch, made her movements sharper, made her want to do better.
“Better.” He stepped in front of her, halting her mid-form. “Your guard has improved.”
“But?”
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough. “But you still drop your elbow when you transition. Here.”
He moved behind her, his hands finding her arms to adjust her position, the same type of corrections he’d been giving her for weeks. But now his fingers lingered on her bare forearms, trailing heat in their wake. Now his breath stirred the hair at her temple as he leaned close to check her form.
“Like this,” he murmured. His chest brushed her back as he guided her through the movement. “Keep the elbow tight.”
She mirrored his instruction, overwhelmingly aware of every point of contact between them. His hands on her arms. His body a wall of warmth behind her. The rumble of his voice so close to her ear.
“Good.”
The praise shouldn’t have sent heat pooling low in her belly or made her lean back into him. But the rules had changed between them since that day in the snow. The boundaries had shifted into something new and undefined.
His hands slid from her arms to her waist, and she stopped breathing.
“You’ve earned a reward,” he said.
She turned in his grip, tilting her face up to his as his mouth descended over hers. His kiss has become so familiar—the taste of him, the pressure of his lips, the way his hands tightened on her hips when she pressed closer.
He always kept these kisses controlled, but she could feel the strain of it, the leashed power trembling just beneath the surface. She could feel how much he wanted to let go, and the knowledge thrilled her.
Her fingers curled into the rough fabric of his shirt as she rose onto her toes to deepen the kiss. A low sound escaped him—half growl, half groan—his big hand cupping her ass and pulling her closer for one exquisite minute before he raised his head.
“Ember.” Her name was a warning.
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. The gold had bled into his irises, bright and molten, and she could see traces of his beast lurking beneath the surface. It only made her want more.
“I know I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered. “I know the rules.”
His laugh was rough. “Rules I’m finding increasingly difficult to follow.”
“Then don’t follow them.”
The words escaped before she could stop them. He went very still, every muscle in his body locking tight. For a long moment he just looked at her, and she could see the war playing out behind his eyes—duty against desire, control against instinct.
“You do not know what you’re asking.”
“I know exactly what I’m asking.”
His hands flexed on her waist, fingers digging in just enough to leave bruises. She didn’t care. She wanted his marks on her, wanted evidence of his touch that would last.
“We agreed to take things slowly,” he said, his voice strained. “Not to test my control.”
“We’ve been taking things slowly for days.” She pressed closer, his erection throbbing against her stomach. “How long until we can speed things up?”
Something dangerous flickered in his expression. His control was slipping—she could see it, could feel it in the tremor that ran through him. One more push and he would break. She wanted him to break.
But he was stronger than she’d given him credit for. With a pained sound, he stepped back, putting distance between them.
“Training is over for today.”
“Rykan—”
“I said it’s over.”
She let him go, watching as he stalked back towards the cabin with his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched.
Part of her wanted to force the confrontation that had been building between them since that kiss in the snow.
But another part—the part that was learning patience along with combat—understood that some battles couldn’t be won through direct assault.
She stayed in the clearing as the sun sank below the mountain peaks, her body still humming with frustrated need, her mind already calculating her next approach.
That night she moved through the small cabin, tending to tasks that had become second nature—stirring the stew, checking the bread, banking the fire for the evening.
He sat at the table, ostensibly sharpening a hunting knife, but she caught him watching her more than once.
His eyes tracked her movements with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness.
Neither of them spoke about what had happened during training. They didn’t need to. The tension filled the cabin like smoke, impossible to ignore, equally impossible to escape.
She served the stew and sat across from him. Their knees brushed under the small table and he went rigid, his hand tightening on his spoon.
“This is good,” he said after a moment, and she recognized the attempt at normalcy for what it was.
“I’m getting better.”
“At many things.”
Their eyes met. The air between them crackled.
She looked away first, deliberately concentrating on her meal. Slowly, she reminded herself. One step at a time. Even if every instinct screamed at her to abandon caution and throw herself at him.
The meal passed in charged silence. She cleared the dishes. He stoked the fire. The familiar routine of evening settled over them, but nothing felt familiar anymore. Every brush of contact, every shared glance, every moment of proximity carried weight it hadn’t before.
When she went to her bedding that night, his eyes tracked her the entire way.
She didn’t sleep.