CHAPTER 7 #2
“A small piece of advice, mi’ajna?” He smiles. “Simply assume for the rest of your life that everyone you ever meet is one of my spies and you will never be caught off guard again.”
It’s good advice, but I’m not about to tell him just how seriously I’m going to take it.
Vakesh settles into the chair opposite my cot, so I make myself comfortable on the edge of my bed. He sets the jug on the table, tauntingly, and pushes it slowly toward me.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks, crossing his arms across his chest as he pins me with a stare.
“Not really,” I admit.
“You and I had a deal. Get it under control or I put you off the ship before we reach A’kori.”
I want to scream that we hadn’t made a deal, that he is being a domineering ass, and that he needs to mind his own business.
But he’s right, and we both know it. I can’t drink myself into oblivion every night, and all it will take is one episode, a single morning where I wake fighting for my life, and no one will ever let me near the king.
“Was it not—” Vakesh sighs, and I watch, puzzled, as he tries to gather his thoughts. “Did the lesson not have the desired affect?”
“I told you it did,” I answer, my brow pinching in confusion.
“But you didn’t care for it?” he guesses, nodding his head as if that is the only reasonable conclusion. “You really should at least attempt it yourself. It is an entirely different experience.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and will my cheeks not to flush.
I haven’t felt like such a child since I rounded the stables at the age of twelve and found a boy of my year with his pants around his ankles and a hand full of himself.
After demanding the boy’s name, Leanna had drawn me a rather crude anatomical diagram to explain what exactly it was I’d seen, and I never saw the boy again.
“Or don’t try it at all,” Vakesh quickly adds, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, unwilling to bring his eyes to mine. “It isn’t for everyone and if it isn’t something you enjoyed—”
“I did,” I say, and his eyes shoot to mine. “I did enjoy it.”
“But?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“But…”
How on Terr does he expect me to have this conversation with him without humiliating myself?
I cross my legs, and his eyes traverse my skin as the sheet falls to the side, baring me to the hip.
I have never felt the need to be overly modest around him before, but now, for reasons I’m still trying to devise, the small ribbon of flesh on display feels vulnerable.
Yet there is an undeniable sense of power in it as well.
“Do you remember when we began my dagger lessons?” I ask.
He smiles and chokes out a small laugh that he quickly hides behind a horrendously fake cough as he schools his features. I squint my eyes at him in mock anger. He promised never to laugh about it again. I suppose he is doing his best, and all things considered, I can hardly blame him.
“You made it look so easy,” I continue, “You stood in the yard and threw dagger after dagger, each crowding the other at the center of the target.”
His eyes gleam and I can see that he is lost in the memory that we share.
“You were so sure of yourself, you never hesitated, never faltered. As I watched you, I remember thinking for a moment that I could be just as good as you, if only I had your confidence.”
His mouth cracks into a genuine toothy grin, it’s glorious.
“You never told me that,” he says, choking down another laugh. “I always wondered what you were thinking when you plucked a dagger from the rack and looked me in the eye as you threw the blade across the yard without so much as a glance toward the target.”
His entire face turns beet red as veins begin to bulge in his neck and forehead.
“All right, you can laugh, but just this once.”
I smile as he gives into himself, a beautiful chuckle tumbling from his lips.
“Stars,” he gasps, “I thought Petron would murder you when your dagger found it’s mark in his arm.”
I can’t help myself and let loose a laugh at the memory as well.
My dagger struck a full ten span off the mark, lodging itself solidly into the arm of the general’s favorite son.
He was a cocky bastard of a man and even Bront had forgiven me for it, saying that anyone who stood close enough to a target to be struck by a blade deserved what they got.
Petron had taken a few months off to recover, and the incident had been quickly forgotten by all but Vakesh who needled me endlessly about it.
“It took months before I learned to strike the center of the target,” I continue.
“It took you less than a week,” he corrects, and I roll my eyes.
“My point is, I did learn a valuable lesson that day. There is no substitute for practice and no honed skill that comes without the investment of time.”
“So,” he says, his brow creasing, “you need time?”
“I need practice,” I say, “And, maybe some instruction?”
He seems a little surprised by the request but nods thoughtfully and agrees. I admit to him that I failed miserably at my earlier attempt, and he doesn’t laugh or make any quips, he just listens until I’m finished talking.
“You said you did it exactly how I showed you?” he asks curiously, his brow arching ever so slightly.
“Exactly,” I say.
He nods, as if I’ve just confirmed something he suspects.
“This isn’t like sparring, Vari. Routine won’t help you. It isn’t so much about the movements as it is the feeling, and I can’t teach you to feel it. That’s all you.”
“That is utterly unhelpful.” I smile dryly.
He returns the smile, rises from his chair, and points to the bed.
“Lie down and practice.”
I do as he says, adjusting the sheet over my body as I get comfortable, fully expecting him to leave me to it. My skin prickles when Vakesh settles himself by my side and observes me. I remind myself that I did just ask the man for instruction and will my nerves to settle as I lay beneath his gaze.
Like before, I push my hand beneath the covers and between my legs. Before I reach my core his hand snakes down the sheets, following the path of my arm and settles like a vice around my wrist. He pulls my hand out from within the sheet and rests it on my breast.
“Start here.”
“You didn’t,” I argue.
“I didn’t need to. The first is always…”
“Easier?”
“With the right person, yes. Now, focus on the feeling.”
I close my eyes and keep my hand on my breast, kneading the soft tissue. Maybe he’s wrong about this part. I know men have an odd fascination with them, but they don’t have to manage them the way women do. Does he touch his own when he does this to himself?
No. Absolutely not. I am not thinking about this.
But it’s too late and the image is already in my mind. Just like the boy I found, holding himself. Before I can shake the image, the featherlight touch of Vakesh’s nimble fingers swirl along the rosy skin that surrounds my nipple.
“Like this,” he whispers and my stomach clenches as he lightly pinches the peaked flesh and my back arches off the bed.
My breath quickens and his fingers move to my side, tracing the curve of my figure until reaching my hip. I sigh contentedly.
Why do his hands feel so much better than mine?
I hear him smile and he removes his hand, grabbing my wrist and guiding my own hand along the same sensitive lines of my body he traced moments before.
“Practice,” he says softly, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He snuffs out the lantern before leaving me to it. After what feels like an eternity, my hand starts cramping between my thighs. I tear it from within the sheets, grumbling under my breath as I slam my head back against the pillow in frustration.
I give up and my eyes wander toward the jug of ale that I’m sure is still sitting on the small table in the pitch black of my room, beckoning. I reject the idea before really considering it and settle in for a night of terror and a morning of bloodlust.
The woman falls to the floor reaching for me. She’s so pretty, even when the light leaves her eyes.
A tall man with broad shoulders and strong arms bellows.
His face is a mask of rage as a blade pierces his neck.
The gurgling spurt of his agony makes my eyes burn, but I can’t make myself look away as his blood runs like a river down his chest and onto the floor.
He falls to his knees and my eyes take in the demon towering behind him.
Black flames lick off the dark scales that adorn it.
It steps toward me, reaching, a bloody blade marring the wooden floor as it drags it behind.
Its fist closes around my throat. I can’t scream. I can’t even breathe.