6. CHAPTER 6
MOON
The foil missed by half an inch. I never missed. Until him. The salle smelled of resin and old leather. High windows threw cold light across the long strip.
I studied the dummy’s shoulder where the point had slipped wide.
Unacceptable. Precision had been non-negotiable since I was six, every lunge, every parry, every extension drilled into muscle memory until error became physically intolerable.
The Aster standard demanded perfection. Not excellence. Perfection.
And now one man had introduced measurable decline.
I rolled my shoulders back and reset my stance. This was how erosion began. One fractional deviation. One visible failure. Then another.
Don’t look at him. Don’t you dare look at him.
I tried to focus on the dummy. On the next sequence. On anything except the man watching me from the doorway. It didn’t work.
Again. Advance. Feint. Lunge. Hit. Too fucking hard.
The dummy rocked violently. Behind the mesh my jaw locked tight while Cillian Ashbourne leaned against the far doorway in boxing shorts and wraps, arms crossed, shoulder blocking half the exit, watching me like he had already mapped every crack in my form.
They’d taught me how to greet presidents and charm donors. How to survive shareholder meetings before I turned eighteen. No one had thought to include a chapter on obsessive Irish criminals.
I finished the sequence because stopping would have been surrender.
Advance. Parry. Riposte.
Almost.
His gaze dropped to my wrist, right where his thumb had dragged over my pulse the night before. My grip tightened automatically.
One look and the Aster standard slipped another measurable inch. I ripped the mask off, crossed the strip with the foil still in my hand, and stopped close enough that the point angled between us like a warning I didn’t fully mean.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Cillian pushed off the doorframe.
“Watching.”
“Get out.”
“In a minute.”
His eyes moved over the mask in my hand, the foil angled at his chest, the sweat at my throat, then my mouth.
Slow and too fucking obvious.
“Jal… hae-sseo-yo?”
I stopped dead. The pronunciation was absolute shit, but he had tried. Specifically.
Jal-haess-eo-yo.
You did well.
My grip tightened on the foil until the leather creaked.
Do not correct him. Do not give him that. “Jal-haess-eo-yo,” I said.
Mother was Korean. We only ever spoke Korean together. She knew I liked men. Never asked me to change. Only ever asked me to choose someone in the same circle.
Of all the men in the world… Cillian fucking Ashbourne. I had corrected him. Worse, I had wanted to. Ugh. Annoying.
Cillian repeated it instantly, still roughened by his Irish accent but closer this time.
I should have put the foil against his throat.
“Teach me.”
“No.”
“Pity.” Cillian’s attention shifted to my mouth. “Bet Zara King gets better fucking manners from you.”
“Leave her out of this.”
“You dragged her into it.” He stepped closer. “I’m not playing some love triangle bullshit. Dump her.”
I put my back to him. “I already dumped you. Goodbye.”
He cut in front of me, fast, blocking the path. “You can fool the rest of them with your little public dates and Gallery photos. I don’t give a shit. I’m not losing to someone who doesn’t even want you. I do. You’re mine. So end it with her.”
I met his eyes. He wasn’t lying. That was the worst part.
“I can’t do this, Cillian. Not in public.” My voice stayed cold. “Stop following me. This… us… it’s never happening.”
He moved in until our chests brushed. Heat poured off him. I tilted my head back, refusing to retreat. Cillian’s jaw worked. His breath ghosted hot across my lips.
“Say that again,” he said, “and I’ll make sure the whole fucking academy knows who you really belong to.”
The foil dipped.
Fuck.
The door opened behind him. Noah burst in, laptop clutched under one arm, headphones dangling around his neck, eyes wide and frantic.
My spine straightened on instinct. He ran straight across the salle. Kaelan sauntered in right after him, grin sharp. “Don’t make me chase you, Birdie.”
Noah disappeared into the next hall. Kaelan followed at an easy pace, still laughing under his breath.
My mouth parted, pulse refusing to settle.
Should I go after them? He looked terrified.
Cillian’s hand closed around my jaw, forcing my eyes back to his. His body stayed close. “It’s academy nonsense,” he said. “Let it go.”
I twisted out of his grip, stepping back hard enough to create distance between us.
“Right.” My voice came out tight. “Where were we? Oh yeah. You leaving.”
“I was hoping you’d offer Korean lessons.”
I kept my eyes on the tip of the foil like it might give me something to focus on that wasn’t him. Nobody had ever learned Korean for me.
“If you’re waiting for me to say yes, don’t,” I said. I shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge. “And stop sending flowers to my room. I’m a guy. It’s awkward.”
His mouth twitched. “That’s your objection?”
“It’s one of many.”
He reached up and straightened my collar.
I swatted his hand away and lifted my mask. “I have practice.”
“Good,” he said, stepping back at last. “I’ll watch.”
“Fuck. You’re annoying.”
My fingers tightened around the mask. Why wouldn’t he just leave me alone?
The door opened on the other side of the salle.
“A fucking B-minus,” Sawyer said as he strode in. “From a man with more scars than office hours and the nerve to call that academic judgment. Can you believe it?”
I closed my eyes. Both of us turned toward the sound. Sawyer came in beside another Aster boy I vaguely recognized from comparative diplomacy, waving the crushed paper like a trophy.
“And do you know the worst part?” He flashed that wide, disarming smile and slung an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “He wouldn’t even change it. The audacity.”
The Aster boy murmured something useless.
Sawyer ignored him, squeezing once. “I was charming. Positively irresistible, wasn’t I?”
“Terrifying,” the boy complained.
Sawyer laughed, still smiling. “Then I was threatening, just a little, for flavor.” His grin stayed in place, but his eyes went flat for half a breath.
“Also terrifying.”
“Then I circled right back to charming again. Range is everything.”
Perfect. Just what this moment needed.
His gaze flicked up, landed on me, then Cillian, then the space between us.
The Aster boy beside him went still.
Sawyer dropped his bag. The sound cracked across the salle.
“You.”
Cillian lifted both hands, gym bag hanging off one shoulder. “On my way to the boxing hall.”
Sawyer’s smile cut sharp. “Through the fencing salle?”
“Scenic route.”
“Bullshit. Try again.”
Cillian glanced at me, then back to Sawyer. “I’m just saying hi to my favorite Aster prince. Problem?”
My grip shifted on the foil.
Sawyer’s smile turned feral. “Moon. Move.”
“Excuse me?”
He stepped in, shoulder knocking mine as he wedged himself between us. Cillian leaned back slightly, head tilting as he watched Sawyer. Sawyer planted two fingers against Cillian’s chest and shoved.
“Aster has enough problems without Thorn leaving fingerprints on our Patronage candidate.”
Cillian’s eyes dropped to the fingers against his chest, then met Sawyer’s eyes. “Careful, lad.”
Sawyer scoffed. “Or what?”
Cillian’s smile stayed calm. “Try it. I’ll break the hand before I bother moving it.”
My hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Sawyer’s shoulder as I yanked him back hard, pulling him away from Cillian.
“Sawyer,” I said, sharper than intended. “Step away from him.”
Fuck.
That was supposed to come out the other way around. I should have told Cillian to step away. Instead I’d dragged Sawyer back like I was protecting him.
In front of both of them.
Cillian’s gaze snapped to me. He tilted his head again, eyes bright.
Sawyer’s expression sharpened. “Him?”
“Drop it,” I snapped.
“You protecting him now?”
Sawyer’s fingers curled around the crushed paper, knuckles white. “Fine.”
“And leave the professor alone.”
His face twitched.
“He gave me a B-minus.”
“Then earn a fucking A.”
His smile faltered.
Cillian let out a low sound, amused.
Sawyer’s eyes cut to him. “Something funny, Ashbourne?”
Cillian stared at the hand still hovering near his chest. “Aye.”
“What?”
“You. Twenty-two and still playing with things that aren’t yours.”
“Leave,” I said to Cillian.
His eyes stayed on mine, that lazy, satisfied smile still playing on his lips. Then he nodded once.
“Jal-haess-eo-yo.”
My entire body tensed. Fuck. Why would he say that in front of everybody? Sawyer’s eyes snapped to me, then flicked to Cillian, then back to me again, disbelief flashing across his face. I shrugged one shoulder, casual, like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.
By the time I decided between stabbing him and following him, Cillian was already halfway to the door.
Silence crashed over the salle. Then Sawyer turned to me slowly.
“Why,” he asked, “are you protecting him?”
My grip squeezed the mask. “I’m protecting Aster optics.”
“Bullshit.”
His gaze cut to the doorway Cillian had almost reached.
“And why the hell is Thorn speaking shitty Korean to you?”
“He isn’t.”
Sawyer’s laugh came out sharp. “I heard him.”
“Then get your hearing checked.”
“Moon.”
“Drop it.”
“Hey, Moonshine.”
I should never have come to this fucking academy.
Cillian paused at the door, one hand on the frame. “Looking forward to those Korean lessons, prince. Try not to miss me too loudly.”
Then he was gone.
Sawyer turned, brows lifting. “He isn’t?”
I slid the mask back down, mesh cool against my burning face. “Practice.”
Sawyer’s grin turned vicious. “Oh, good. We’re lying now. Fantastic. My favorite game.”
I raised the foil. “Fencing.”
“Sure,” Sawyer said. “Because when Thorn heirs corner Aster princes during initiation, they’re usually asking for footwork tips.”
Advance. Feint. Lunge. Miss.
Again. Sweat stung my eyes. The foil sat wrong in my hand, heavy and unfamiliar. First time in years.
Jal-haess-eo-yo.
You did well.
I reset my stance. Knee forward. Wrist loose. Shoulder steady. Advance. Feint. Lunge. Miss.
The point slipped wide. My jaw tightened. He had practiced. Was Saint Lucia real? Of all men, it had to be him. A Thorn. Rival. The one who saw the real me under the polish.
If I admitted it… then what?
Advance. Feint. Lunge. Miss.
Fuck. I was drunk. Bad judgment. I built the whole connection from basic attention and one smile. It should have comforted me. It didn’t. Because if Saint Lucia wasn’t real, he had no reason to keep showing up. No reason to butcher my language.
Advance. Feint. Lunge.
Miss.
Foil dropped.
I watched the dummy. Point buried uselessly off-target.
I’d spent my whole life learning how to hide behind House of Moon perfection. He made me wonder why I still bothered.
I should want him gone. The Thorn heir who watched me unravel. Or the man from Saint Lucia who made me forget the mask. Fuck. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to be real.