2 #3
“Then I don’t understand.”
Of course, he didn’t. Intuitiveness aside, this soldier couldn’t tell the difference between my heart and my words.
The most effective way to dodge another arrow? Rehash old arguments.
Putting on a show, I huffed. “You insist on guarding me, and now you insist on supplying me with your idea of proper equipment. When are you going to realize I don’t need your help? I can make my own way, and I can maintain my weapons just fine.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Your ferocity isn’t being questioned. I’ve only ever tried to protect—”
“I don’t want your protection!” I shouted, squeezing the whetstone. “I don’t want anything from you. If you can’t get that through your stubborn skull, then exercise your sixth fucking sense!”
“I have no sixth sense with you!”
I paused. “What?”
With his mouth closed, Aire expelled a thick breath. “I cannot read you. Not as I can with everyone else.”
My lips parted. Why not? How did his sensory perception work? This knight rarely talked about that.
Aire braced his hands on his hips. He bowed his head in weariness, the burden of his gift pulling down those massive shoulders.
“Sometimes the wind carries signs to me. Other times, it’s intrinsic. I do not know why you’re immune.” He faced me once more, relief alleviating his tone. “But I’m glad of it.”
Because otherwise, that would be invasive. It troubled Aire to read others and sense bygone events that had occurred in any given location, such as a castle or a rainforest. He never said as much, but he didn’t have to. I saw this plainly.
All those times I worked hard to mask my feelings, to the point of anxiety. I might be mad at him for withholding, yet it wouldn’t last. If we were keeping score, I’d done worse to him.
I nodded, accepting his explanation.
With the same perseverance he used to inspire his troops, Aire clasped my shoulder.
The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric, stunning me into silence.
“Accepting someone’s help isn’t a weakness,” he emphasized.
“It does not invalidate your strength. Family, fellowships, and friends protect each other. That’s what we do. ”
The declaration struck me to the core. “Maybe so, but who I rely on is my business to decide. You don’t get to wear me like some badge of honor, so stop playing the perfect savior.”
A remote memory flickered in his pupils. “I’m not perfect.”
You are to me.
For years, I’d been squirreling every trait about this man, amassing the details like breadcrumbs to snack on whenever I went hungry.
He drank apple cider by the bucket-load.
He whispered to his warhorse while brushing the animal’s mane.
Whenever he stretched for training, he started by rolling his neck.
And he touched his sword hilt whenever something baffled him.
Hawks flocked to this man. So did every breeze.
Over the hood, his palm bolstered my shoulder not like a suitor, but like a sibling. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you.”
His scent infused my lungs. Aged leather and something wild, like gale of fresh wind.
I yearned to inhale until I got tipsy on the mixture. I longed to feel his hands the way I’d envisioned. But if I did, this one-sided desire would suffocate me.
Something caught him off guard, his irises flashing in astonishment. As if scalded, he yanked his hand from my shoulder. And as he did, his thumb unintentionally grazed the beauty mark above my upper lip, its circular shape and dark gradient resembling a tree knot.
I jerked back as well. “You can help by staying away. I’ll be better off without you hovering at my back all the time, so don’t expect me to be waiting when you return.”
My retort lashed like a whip. Hurt lacerated Aire’s expression before it hardened into something terrible.
Something that would last through time and distance.
As the light in his irises dulled, my soul ruptured. With a muscle ticking in his jaw, Aire turned and left. Stalking across the lane, he mounted the stallion, who turned on command and sprang into a furious gallop.
Hooves pounded against the ground like fists. His silhouette vanished, returning to the castle, to the revels, and to his guests.
While staring at the road, I pressed the whetstone to the spot where Rhys had grabbed me, the cool surface alleviating my bruise.
There. Aire had helped me after all.
And he was right about the patina surface nicked with silver. It was my favorite color.
“Do… you like it?”
Aspen of Autumn didn’t shed tears. Aspen of Autumn didn’t pine for a man.
My eyes stung. I clutched the whetstone to my heart.
“I love it,” I whispered into the night. “So much.”
I made sure to keep my voice down. I would get over him, because I couldn’t afford the alternative. Being susceptible placed people who mattered in danger.
I’d have plenty of time to cry myself to sleep later. In bed, when no one was around.
Until then, I pocketed the whetstone and sighed loudly, acting relieved by his departure. Then I moved. In a flash, my fingers snatched the axe. Spinning, I veered toward the shifty hedge.
My arm swung. The axe tumbled, hacking through the foliage. A second later, the blade found its mark, and a grunt rumbled through the woods.
I jetted toward the noise, barreling into the thicket. Skidding on my heels, I paused. The hatchet was embedded into a tree trunk, speckles of blood staining the bark.
Whoever I grazed, the chickenshit had scurried off. A lucky draw, considering my aim had been precise. I’d been tracking their position for a while during the argument with Aire.
Growling, I yanked the axe from the tree, my joints aching from the long-distance throw.
Fueled by rage, I’d taken a shot in the dark.
Though, it hadn’t been without due consideration.
Under normal circumstances, this would come back to bite me in the ass.
The eavesdropping lowlife could report this affront to Rhys.
Except they wouldn’t. That would only make them look incompetent against a likely younger counterpart, which would disgust Rhys, who had no patience for sissies and even less time for sympathy.
Whimpering about a gash would only earn that sycophant a demotion, if not the king’s indignation.
No opportunist in Summer’s cult would chance that.
As for the parting scene between Aire and me, that stooge would be taking the juicy details back to Rhys.
Because Summer guessed my vulnerability earlier, I’d had no choice but to drive the knife deeply into Aire.
My performance had been as stellar as Poet and Briar’s whenever they worked a crowded room.
Remnants of Aire’s tormented expression lanced through me. My final moments with him. All the honest things I’d wanted to say. The lies I told instead.
Rhys would believe the story. If the perceptive First Knight hadn’t caught onto the ruse, that bumbling ruler sure as shit wouldn’t.
“The only thing you’re good for, is what I say you’re good for. Liar. Cheater. Killer. That’s what you are.”
Liar. Cheater. Killer.
Mutant. Traitor. Someone.
The nicknames others have given me piled up like dry kindling. With so many under my belt, sometimes it was hard to remember who I really was.
But someday it would be different. Someday, I’d light a match and roast the monikers in a pyre.
Summer versus Autumn. The winner had been clear for a while.
Poet and Briar had exposed Rhys’s bullshit during Reaper’s Fest. And with Jeryn and Flare joining the clan, Autumn held the cards. This nation had Spring on its side. More importantly, it had Winter.
Summer stood in too weak a position to openly attack. Being scorned by The Dark Seasons had robbed the king of options. But men like Rhys didn’t stay down for long, especially if he kept a few last-ditch pawns in his pocket.
By manipulating others, he tested the clan’s defenses without implicating himself. This tactic conserved risk while advancing his goals, giving Rhys ample time to marinate in his own prejudiced cesspool and add Seasonal warfare to his bucket list. An objective that would take years.
Years of having me under his thumb, thus endangering the clan and my family. Years of harming innocent people. Years of serving the wrong side.
I clenched the bloody axe in one fist, then brushed Aire’s gift with the other. Like a newly forged blade, an idea formed.
Lying could be more than a shield. It could become a weapon. Something to wield in unexpected ways the king wouldn’t see coming, beating him at his game and safeguarding the clan.
My nostrils flared, my heart broke, and my plan ignited.
Rhys wanted to blackmail a liar? I would give him a fucking liar.