Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The training yard was empty save for them, and Liliane's heart hammered as Tòrr led her to the center of the space, a small dirk gleaming in his hand.
"First lesson," he said, holding up the blade so she could see it properly. "This is nae a sword. Ye willnae be swingin' it about like some warrior in a tale. This is a tool fer close quarters, fer when someone's already too close and ye need tae make them regret it."
"So it's fer stabbin’ people." Her voice came out more uncertain than she'd intended.
"Aye, if it comes tae that." He moved closer, offering her the dirk hilt-first. "Take it. Get used tae the weight."
She wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped handle, surprised by how heavy it felt despite its small size. "It's heavier than I expected."
"That's good. Means it'll dae real damage if ye use it right.
" He circled around her, studying how she held the weapon.
"But yer grip is all wrong. Ye're holdin' it like a lady holdin' a teacup—delicate, careful, afraid it might break.
This thing's meant tae break other things, nae tae be protected. "
"How should I hold it then?"
"Like ye mean it." He stopped behind her, so close she could feel his body heat. "Like–if someone tries tae hurt ye, ye'll make them bleed fer it. Show me yer grip again."
She adjusted her hold, trying to seem more confident, but his hand closed over hers before she could settle into position.
"Nae like that. Yer thumb needs tae be here, along the spine of the blade.
Gives ye more control." His calloused fingers guided hers, repositioning each digit with careful precision.
"And yer grip needs tae be firm but nae tense.
If ye're white-knucklin' the handle, yer movements will be stiff, predictable. "
"This is more complicated than I thought."
"Most things are." His breath stirred the hair at her temple. "Now, when ye strike, ye're nae tryin' tae slash. Slashin' makes noise, draws attention, might nae even stop someone if they're wearin' thick clothes. Ye want tae thrust. Drive the blade in and pull it back out quick."
She tried to process the information, but it was difficult to focus with him standing so close, his hand warm on her waist, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
"Show me," she said. "Pretend I'm the enemy."
He released her and stepped back, giving her space. "Alright. Come at me like ye're tryin' tae strike. Dinnae worry about hurtin' me, ye willnae."
That stung more than it should have. "Ye think I'm that weak?"
"I think ye've never held a blade before today, which means yer chances of landin' a real blow are about as good as a fish climbin' a tree." His lips quirked. "But prove me wrong if ye can."
She lunged forward, aiming for his midsection the way he'd described. He sidestepped so smoothly she nearly fell, his hand catching her elbow to steady her.
"Too slow. And ye showed yer intent with yer eyes. I kent exactly where ye were goin' before ye even moved." He positioned her again. "Try once more. This time, dinnae look at where ye're aimin'. Look at me face, at me eyes, and let yer body dae the strikin' without announcement."
She tried again, and again, each attempt met with the same effortless avoidance. Frustration built in her chest.
"This is impossible. Ye're too fast."
"I'm nae too fast. Ye're too obvious." He caught her wrist mid-strike, holding the dirk away from him with insulting ease. "Every time ye're about tae move, ye tense up. Yer shoulders rise, yer breath catches, yer eyes focus too intently on yer target. Ye need tae learn tae hide yer intentions."
He moved behind her again, and she felt his boot tap against her ankle. "Feet wider apart. Ye need a solid base."
His hands came to her hips, adjusting her position with clinical efficiency that somehow felt anything but clinical. "Drop yer center of gravity. Lower. Aye, that's better."
"Ye're enjoyin' this," she accused, acutely aware of how his chest was nearly pressed against her back. "Bossin' me about. Correctin' every little thing."
"Maybe a bit." She could hear the smile in his voice.
She adjusted, spreading her stance.
"Better." He circled around to face her.
"Now, when someone comes at ye, the first thing ye dae is create distance.
Step back, get yer blade up between ye and them, make yerself a harder target.
" He demonstrated, his movements fluid and controlled.
"Then ye look fer openings. When they overextend, when they drop their guard, when they make a mistake, that's when ye strike. "
"And if they dinnae make a mistake?"
"Everyone makes mistakes eventually. Especially in a fight." He moved toward her slowly. "Block me."
She brought the dirk up instinctively, but he batted it aside with ease, his hand catching her wrist.
"Too rigid. Yer arm is locked, which means I can control it with minimal effort." He released her and stepped back. "Try again. This time, keep yer arm loose, ready tae adjust."
They practiced for what felt like hours, Tòrr coming at her from different angles, forcing her to react, to defend, to find the balance between being ready and being tense. Each time she failed, he corrected her. Each time she improved even slightly, he acknowledged it.
"Better," he said after she managed to deflect one of his approaches without him immediately overpowering her. "Ye're learnin'. Though ye're still thinkin' too much instead of reactin'."
"How dae I stop thinkin'?"
"Practice until it becomes instinct." He wiped sweat from his brow. "But we've done enough fer today. Yer arms must be shakin' from holdin' that dirk so long."
She lowered the blade, surprised to realize he was right—her arms ached, her shoulders burned, and she was breathing harder than she'd expected.
His thumb brushed over her pulse point, and she knew he could feel how fast her heart was beating. "When the moment comes, dinnae think. Just act."
"Tòrr." His name came out breathier than she'd intended.
"Focus, lass." But his voice had roughened. Her free hand had somehow come to rest on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through his sweat-dampened shirt.
"Liliane." It sounded like a warning. Or maybe a plea.
"Ye said I need tae learn tae act without thinkin'." She looked up at him through her lashes. "Tae trust me instincts."
"Aye, but—" His words cut off as she rose onto her toes and kissed him.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then the dirk clattered to the ground between them as his arms came around her, pulling her against him with a force that stole her breath. His mouth opened over hers, hot and demanding, and she could taste salt from their exertion and something darker, more primal.
"We shouldnae," he murmured against her lips. "Ye need rest, and we're both covered in dirt and sweat."
"I daenae care." Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. "Take me back tae our chamber. Now."
He groaned, his control visibly fraying. "Ye're goin' tae be the death of me, lass. Ye ken that?"
He bent and swept her up into his arms, carrying her across the training yard with long, purposeful strides. She buried her face in his neck, breathing in his scent.
"Anyone could see us," she said, though she made no move to ask him to put her down.
"Let them." His voice was rough with desire.
He got to the chamber and kicked open the door, not slowing his pace.
He pressed her against the wall, his body caging hers.
His mouth crashed down on hers in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation, his tongue forcing its way past her lips.
She moaned into him, tasting salt and iron, the flavor of his sweat intoxicating.
His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, grinding against the hard ridge of his manhood trapped behind his clothes.
He broke the kiss with a growl, his breath hot against her swollen lips.
“Nae yet,” he murmured, his voice rough.
His fingers traced the curve of her breast through the thin fabric of her gown, teasing her nipple until it hardened beneath his touch.
Then, slowly, deliberately, his hand slid lower, palming her through her leathers before slipping beneath the dress.
She gasped as his fingers found her soaked folds, her sensitive spot throbbing under his touch.
He circled her folds once, twice, then pulled back with a smirk.
“First, I want tae worship ye.”
Before she could protest, he dropped to his knees, his hands hooking behind her thighs to spread her wide. The cool air hit her exposed flesh, but the heat of his breath followed instantly, his tongue dragging up her slit in one long, slow lick.
She shuddered, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as he buried his face between her legs.
His beard scratched the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, the contrast of rough and soft sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.
He lapped at her like a man starving, his tongue flicking over her folds before sucking it into his mouth.
Her hips jerked, her body arching toward him, but his grip on her curves kept her in place, his fingers digging into her flesh as he devoured her.
“Ye taste so good,” he groaned against her, the vibrations making her whimper. She could feel her orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, but just as she teetered on the edge, he pulled back, standing with a wicked grin. His lips glistened with her arousal, his eyes dark with lust. “Yer turn.”
He undressed with practiced ease freeing his manhood. It sprang out, thick and flushed, the head already slick with pre-come. She didn’t need to be told twice. Dropping to her knees, she took him in her hands, marveling at the weight of him, the way his veins pulsed beneath her fingertips.
She leaned in, her tongue darting out to lick the tip, swirling around the crown before taking him into her mouth.
He hissed, his hands flying to her hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she hollowed her cheeks and took him deeper.
She hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tremble, and when she pulled back to breathe, he groaned,
“Ye’re going tae make me come like that.”
She smirked up at him, her lips swollen and wet, before standing and pushing him down onto the bed.
“Nae yet,” she purred, echoing his earlier words. He sat, his manhood jutting upward, and she straddled him, her fingers wrapping around his shaft to guide him to her entrance.
She sank down slowly, her breath hitching as he stretched her, filled her completely. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as she began to ride him, her breasts bouncing with each roll of her hips.
The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, their breaths mingling in ragged gasps.
She could feel him everywhere—inside her, beneath her, his hands branding her skin.
But then, with a growl, he flipped them, pinning her beneath him.
His manhood drove into her with relentless precision, each thrust hitting that perfect spot deep inside.
She cried out, her nails raking down his back.
Her body tightening around him and she shattered, her folds clenching around him as her orgasm ripped through her.
He followed with a groan, his manhood twitching as he spilled inside her, his release hot and thick. They lay there, breathless, their chests heaving in unison, skin still slick with sweat. Tòrr's fingers traced lazy patterns on her shoulder, his breathing gradually slowing.
"We're goin' tae be late fer dinner," he murmured eventually.
"We're already late." She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Though I suppose we should clean up before anyone sees us like this."