Chapter 17 You Don’t Get To Say That
Chapter seventeen
You Don’t Get To Say That
Lira’s footsteps echoed through the empty training hall, each scuff of her heel against marble a small echo in the silence.
Dawn had barely breached the horizon, painting the tall windows in washes of pale gold that transformed the austere space into something almost beautiful.
She preferred the facility like this—vacant, peaceful, hers alone for the precious hour before the Veyra officers arrived to shatter the solitude with their presence.
In fact, it was the only time she was allowed in these training rooms—when no one could see her.
Her fingers trailed along the polished wood of the weapon racks as she passed, an unconscious habit born from years of coming here to watch her brothers train.
Of course, as a woman, she was never allowed to touch one.
‘Females have no place training beside men, Lira,’ her father had said.
‘Your place is behind us, ready to be called on when needed. Not beside, never beside.’
The memory collected in her mind as the materials glided across her skin.
Each blade, each staff, each training weapon she was determined to master now.
She would never admit this to anyone, never even say it out loud—but she was envious of the women in the outer rings.
That they were trained to protect themselves, that the rebels did not let gender keep you from fighting, from leading.
Her mask felt heavier this morning, the rose gold pressing against her temples with unusual weight.
Perhaps it was the lack of sleep—the hours spent pacing her chambers, mind racing with worry for Greyson, for the tenuous peace that hung by threads between them all.
Or perhaps it was the knowledge that today, she was delivering a mask that would pull on those threads.
Lira shrugged out of her jacket as she dropped her duffel bag and tossed it to the floor.
Her fingers slid through her dark strands as she approached the mat, securing it in a ponytail on the back of her head as she slipped off her shoes.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, feeling the slight give of the padded surface.
Her muscles remembered her training with Callum even before her mind directed them, body falling into the familiar stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent.
The first breath came deep and centering, drawing oxygen down to her core as Callum had taught her.
The second expanded her rib cage, lifting her posture to achieve perfect alignment. The third—
“You’re telegraphing your left side.”
Lira spun toward the voice, instinct driving her hand to a nonexistent weapon at her back.
Callum leaned against the doorframe of the entrance casually, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with that insufferable half smile that lived in the corners of his mouth.
The copper and gold of his mask caught the dawn light, transforming the metal to living flame.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice emerged sharper than intended, brittle with surprise.
He straightened, pushing off from the doorframe with all the ease of a man who knew exactly what he did to her.
“Good morning to you too, Li.” His voice was familiar, infuriating in its warmth.
Her eyes narrowed behind her mask. “You don’t have clearance for this facility.” A statement, not a question. She knew every name on the access list. Had reviewed it personally after the last security breach. “No badge. No Serel credentials.”
“I have my ways.” His voice carried that hint of mischief that had always been her undoing. He moved deeper into the room, circling the edge of the mat like a predator assessing territory. “The Veyra security system has . . . gaps. For those who know where to look.”
“Those gaps get people executed.” She remained in the center of the mat, tracking his movements. He was up to something, he was always up to something. “Why are you really here?”
He paused at the nearest weapon rack, fingers hovering over a training staff before selecting it. The wood twirled between his fingers with no effort. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
There it was. The old wound, named and reopened in the space of a single sentence. She should have walked out, but her feet rooted to the mat.
She hated how quickly the tension in the room became a kind of gravity, pulling her and Callum together despite the pain it caused. She hated even more the part of her that wanted to believe him.
Lira ignored the sensation, focusing instead on the practical concern. “If you’re caught—”
“I won’t be,” he answered softly, stepping onto the mat with the staff held loosely in one hand. “Spar with me?”
Lira hesitated. Time alone with Callum was dangerous—like handling exposed wires with wet hands. Every interaction held the potential for shock, for burn from that current that had never quite stopped flowing between them despite her best efforts to sever the connection.
“One round,” she conceded. She could see the smile that formed behind his mask reflecting in his eyes as she moved to select a staff of her own. The wood felt cool against her palm, its weight perfectly balanced.
She took position at the center mat, making him come to her. Callum didn’t hesitate.
They circled each other, two planets caught in a mutual orbit, each calculating the moment of collision. Callum was taller, stronger, but Lira had spent a lifetime compensating for the advantages of men who believed they couldn’t be hurt.
She feinted left; he followed. She swept a leg; he dodged.
They moved with the ease of memory, muscle and bone recalling all of their training sessions.
His first strike came swift and testing, a simple thrust she parried easily.
The wooden staffs clacked together, the sound sharp in the empty hall.
She countered with a sweeping low attack that he jumped over with irritating grace, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.
“You're holding back,” she accused, advancing with a series of rapid strikes that forced him to give ground.
“So are you.” He blocked each blow, the impacts traveling up her arms. “Afraid of getting too close, my love?”
The old nickname stung more than it should have.
My love.
What he used to whisper against her ear in those stolen moments before he crushed any chance for them beneath his heel.
She attacked with renewed intensity, channeling the surge of emotion into physical force.
Each strike contained a memory she couldn’t afford to acknowledge—his hands in her hair, his mouth on her throat, the way he’d looked at her when he’d first removed her mask.
Like she was a miracle he couldn’t quite believe existed.
Callum matched her tempo, his defense shifting seamlessly to offense as he found the rhythm of her anger.
“You’re angry,” he observed, voice barely strained despite the exertion. “Good. Use it.”
“I’m not angry.” She panted. “I’m focused.”
His laugh was warm and knowing. “You’ve never been able to lie to me, Li. Not convincingly.”
The truth of it only fueled her frustration.
She feinted high, then dropped low, sweeping her staff at his ankles.
He jumped but not quite high enough—the wood caught his heel, unbalancing him.
Lira pressed the advantage, closing the distance and striking at his midsection.
He blocked, but the force drove him back farther.
He caught her staff with his own, locking them together between their bodies. They stood close enough now that she could see the flecks of green in his eyes through the slits in his mask, could feel the heat radiating from his body.
He smiled down at her, pulling her closer by their staffs as his eyes glinted.
“Hi, baby.” His voice had dropped low, intimate.
Lira wrenched her staff free, tossing it to the side, and spun away, creating distance between them. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a thundering betrayal of her composure. This was exactly why she avoided him as much as she could—the way her body remembered what her mind fought to forget.
Callum followed her lead, tossing his staff to the side, and waited for her next attack. She moved to strike but he caught her arm and spun her, locking her against him. She dropped her eight, rolled, and came up with a sweep that almost took his legs.
They moved together like smoke, swirling and dancing against the other. Each attack flowing into defense, each defense into attack. Every touch, every brush of skin sent electricity through her. Their bodies remembered each other, muscle memory that five years couldn’t erase.
They went to the mat hard, her landing on top, thighs bracketing his waist, hands pinning his wrists above his head. Both stayed frozen, both panting. She could feel his heartbeat through every point of contact, could see her own mask reflected in his.
His hands slid free of her grip—she let them, she absolutely let them—and traced up her legs.
Slow. Deliberate. His fingers found the curve of her hips, traveled up her sides with a possessiveness that made her breath catch.
One hand rose to her face, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped back behind her ear.
The gesture was so soft, so tender like he had always been with her, it nearly broke her.
He sat up, keeping an arm around her waist as she straddled him, bringing their faces close enough that their masks almost touched. His hand stayed at her jaw, thumb tracing the edge where her mask met skin.
“I miss you,” he whispered, keeping his eyes locked on hers.
Three words.
Simple in structure, devastating in impact.
Lira felt them each like a punch to her gut, each syllable striking somewhere vital and unguarded.
For a dangerous moment, she let herself lean into his touch, let herself remember how perfectly they’d fit together, how completely he’d understood her in ways no one else ever had or likely ever would.