7. Aryn #2
Tonight is no different. I arrive to find him already moving through forms, moonlight glinting off the sweat on his arms. He’s stunning in the soft yellow glow, face pulled tight in concentration.
The sight pulls at something low in my stomach…
something I have no business feeling. I watch the controlled power in his movements a moment longer than I should, then step into the ring.
He doesn’t greet me. He never does. He simply turns, tosses me a practice sword, and drops into stance.
We spar harder tonight, blades clacking sharply in the still air. Each exchange leaves me more aware of him. The way his breath hitches when I press him back, the flex of muscle across his shoulders, and the focused intensity in his eyes whenever our gazes lock.
It’s becoming a problem I don’t have time for right now.
I find myself thinking about these stolen hours during the day—imagining the way he moves like water, picturing the iron clad determination in his eyes, and wondering if he’ll ever trust me enough to share that part of himself he guards so closely.
He raises his arms in a spin, and the hem of his shirt lifts just enough to give me a flash of his stomach. I’m so distracted I almost don’t dodge when his blade comes swooping down.
Focus, Aryn.
I chastise myself even as I pull myself together and counter. This is dangerous. We are days away from crossing into a world I haven’t traveled in over a century. Distraction could cost lives.
And Cato is… complicated.
Thrill-seeking and impulsive, and living his life like he can’t wait for someone to get in his face. He’s prickly on his best days, and downright combative on his worst.
He’s also gorgeous in a rugged way that makes him feel untamed. He’s like a wild horse that refuses to be caught, but still wants to be chased.
His sword crashes against mine, and I fight to regain my footing. It’s a reminder that letting my thoughts drift toward anything beyond professional is foolish, especially when he makes it perfectly clear during daylight that he merely tolerates my presence.
He drives me back against the fence again, blade hovering near my throat. Our chests heave in the small space between us. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His eyes drop to my mouth, then flick back up, but his expression is as unreadable as ever.
I swallow. “You’re improving.”
He huffs a breath. “So are you.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should. I step sideways, breaking the moment before I can do something reckless. “Again?”
Cato rolls his shoulders and nods, already resetting. “Again.”
We continue for several more exchanges until we’re both breathing hard and drenched in sweat. Eventually Cato steps back and lowers his sword. “Break,” he pants, before grabbing his water and heading toward a bench at the edge of the ring.
This is the time of night he usually finds an excuse to leave, or finds a way to tell me to get lost. I push those limits tonight, cautiously following and dropping beside him. When he doesn’t stop me, I settle in and take a few long swallows of water.
Cato stares out at the dark training circle for a long time before he speaks. “Can I ask you a question?”
I glance at his profile, silvered by the moonlight. “Sure.”
“A few nights ago, you said you needed to take back what was stolen from you.”
“I did,” I answer softly.
“What did they take?”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the glass.
I consider giving him the full story, but the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I convince myself to give him half of the truth.
“When I was taken, I left behind everyone I ever knew. Family, friends. People who had been with me for a lifetime. I have no idea what happened to them. Crossing over means finding out if they’re still there… ”
“Or if they’re not,” he says quietly.
“Exactly.”
Cato is quiet for a while. “I lost people too,” he finally says. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to know the truth of it.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t pry. The silence stretches between us, not entirely comfortable but not hostile either. I glance over at him, watching the way moonlight traces the scars along his jaw. “I trust you to have my back out there, Cato.”
Surprise flickers across his face as he meets my eyes, then looks away again. “I don’t trust easily.”
My chest tightens, but I won’t push him for words he doesn’t mean. “I know.”
“But,” he says gruffly, “I trust you to have mine, too.”
The admission lands softly between us, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
The night air feels heavier, and I nod once.
It’s the only response I can manage, too afraid to do or say more and risk breaking this fragile thing he’s handed me.
We sit in silence a while longer until our breathing evens out.
Eventually Cato stands, stretching his arms overhead with a low groan. “Same time tomorrow?”
I look up at him, the moonlight catching the faint sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. “I’ll be here.”
He gives a short nod, then turns and walks off into the darkness without another word. I stay on the bench a little longer, listening to his footsteps fade. My pulse still hasn’t quite settled.
This is training, I remind myself again as I push to my feet and head back toward home. Nothing more.