Chapter Forty-Seven
FORTY-SEVEN
The second I step into the Training Centre I can tell something is wrong.
Students seem tense as they go through their warm up routines and spar with each other.
They’re quiet. No quips are passed between them as they dance around each other, there are no cocky smirks when someone lands a strike.
Their heads are down, their mouths are set in tight lines, and their movements are efficient and calculated.
A shiver rolls down my spine as my boots pad across the room to the far end where the first years usually train. The intensity in the air is suffocating. No one even looks my way as I walk past, which is a first. Usually I get at least one glaring look.
Eventually, my eyes land on Isla and Sebastian in our usual training spot. He’s standing in front of her and moving her hands into a defensive position. Making sure she’s keeping them up and shielding her head.
My stomach curls in anticipation and nervousness the closer I get to him.
We never went further than a few gropes and light touching in the shower.
He washed my body, and I washed his. We spent that time learning the road maps of each other, every curve and dip, scar and freckle.
It wasn’t sexual per se, though the evidence of the slickness between my thighs and his hard length tapping against my hips and prodding into my backside each time I moved suggested at how aroused we both were.
But neither one of us took it further, both content to lather soap into each other’s skin and just enjoy the moment.
In a way, it was more special than anything else I’ve ever felt.
It felt honest and raw. It felt beautiful.
Now though, I’m worried how it’s going to affect us in this dynamic.
I don’t want him to go easy on me now. I’d probably end up resenting him if he did.
I want him to see me as capable and strong.
When it comes to training, I need his brutality, I need him to be stern; it’s the only way I’ll know if he respects me or not. As an equal. As a warrior.
I’m only a few feet away from him and Isla when the door to my left opens. I stop dead in my tracks when Headmaster Zain walks out of Professor Nicks’s office, the latter looking like he’s about to burst out of his skin with fury.
My gaze runs over Bartollo’s black and maroon fitted suit, all the way down to his brown dress shoes. He sticks out like a sore thumb here, but his presence explains to me why everyone’s so quiet and tense.
‘Miss Nocthare,’ Headmaster Zain stops in front of me. ‘You look well. I’ve heard you are settling in much better than the last time we spoke.’
Not being accused of murder does that to a person, I think, but don’t dare say out loud. I’m slowly learning to keep my mouth shut. Kind of.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell me, how have you been finding Malachite? I heard you’re still having trouble with your element.’
I cringe. Good to know my failure is a topic worthy of being discussed between faculty.
My mouth opens to reply but I pause when I hear Sebastian shout angrily, ‘Nocthare, in the ring. Now. I don’t have all day!’
My head whips toward him. There’s a fire raging in his eyes and I’d bet my life it’s due to the man standing before me. It’s evident Sebastian holds a lot of disdain for his grandfather.
‘He’s your trainer?’ Bartollo asks, with a curious tone.
‘Um – yeah. If you’ll excuse me … I should go.’
‘Of course.’ He takes a step back, gesturing for me to pass him. ‘Though I do hope to hear good news about your element soon. It seems Malachite might be your calling after all.’
With that parting statement, I leave and hurriedly make my way to Sebastian and Isla. The second I reach him I’m swamped by his foul mood and realise we’re back to trainer and trainee beneath this roof. I smile inwardly.
Before I have time to ask about what his grandfather was doing here, he throws me two rolled up balls of fabric and instructs me to wrap my hands then get into an offensive position inside the ring. I do as I’m told.
‘You get two minutes to land as many successful punches as possible. Peters, your job is to dodge, counterattack and defend yourself. Do not let her hit those targets.’
‘Targets? What targets?’ I ask, looking around the room, expecting to see some hanging somewhere.
‘These ones.’ Isla points to her body, where there are several blue circles that look like they’ve been painted on her skin and clothes. I didn’t even notice them. I take note of their locations and commit them to memory. Left shoulder, right bicep, ribs, both sides, middle of stomach, left thigh.
‘When the two minutes are up, you’ll swap positions and we will keep going until you’re either defending so well your opponent cannot land any successful strikes, or you’re completely useless and I’m too embarrassed to watch any longer. Got it?’
We agree and get into our respective positions.
My first attack is quick, barely a breath before we’ve settled into the ring. But I know my offence isn’t as strong, so I need to be fast and use the element of surprise. It works, Isla’s eyes widen in surprise and she leaps forward. My fist snaps out and jabs her right in the left shoulder.
‘That’s one,’ Sebastian calls out.
I don’t get too happy about it, because now she’s alert and ready.
Her eyes scan me from head to toe as I start to move around her.
I look for an opening, but she’s locked up tight.
The easiest target would be the one on her thigh, though I think she’s aware, which is why she keeps looking at my feet, waiting to see if I’ll take the opportunity and go in for a kick.
I circle around one more time before I lift my knee and feign a kick. Isla twists her target out of the way and leaps back, expecting my leg to arc wide and kick through thin air. But her leg isn’t my actual target, it’s her right bicep, which she just left open as she turned away from me.
My fist connects with the target, smudging blue paint across her skin and staining the fabric my knuckles are wrapped in with blue. This one obviously has not dried quick enough.
Isla curses, rolling her eyes when Sebastian calls out, ‘That’s two. Forty-five seconds left.’
Shit. I took too long stalling and looking for an opportunity to strike. I spend the next forty-five seconds throwing quick jabs, not too hard, because I don’t want to tire myself out and I don’t know how long we will be doing this for.
Isla defends well, blocking my fists with her arms, leaping back when she needs to or twisting away, and I barely skim her twice. In Sebastian’s eyes, a barely-there skim of a target is not a successful hit.
When the two minutes are up, I have a healthy sweat going on and my heart is pumping.
Sebastian calls me over to a bench where there’s a little pot of blue paint. I follow him to it, watching the way his muscles cause his shirt to stretch over his large frame.
‘Come here.’ He crooks two fingers at me then picks up the pot of paint. I close the distance between us and watch silently as he dips his forefinger into it. ‘You need to stop looking for an opening before attacking. Instead, make one.’
‘I thought that’s what I did when I pretended to go for the target on her leg.’
He nods, causing a dark strand of hair to fall over his forehead. The urge to reach up and push it back rears up inside me, but then I remember where we are. ‘That was good, though now she’ll be expecting you to do it again. It won’t be so easy next time.’
I gasp softly when his finger reaches my left shoulder and draws a circle. The paint is cold and wet, but I feel my blood rush with heat.
His jaw clenches. He dips his finger back into the paint and draws another circle on my right bicep. My breath stills when the next circle is on the centre of my stomach. Memories of how his wet soapy fingers felt as he kneaded my flesh have my cheeks heating.
‘You’re blushing.’ His voice is low as his finger lazily draws around and around, tracing the circle he’s made on my stomach.
‘No,’ I breathe. Forcing myself not to look away from his gaze. Stars, his eyes are so green, like the leaves of the trees in the forest, with a darker ring of green on the outside. ‘That’s from sparring,’ I lie.
‘Hmm,’ he nods, lips quirking. ‘That must be it then,’ he says before he dips his finger into the paint again and makes quick work of drawing on either side of my ribs, effectively ruining my shirt.
But it’s when he crouches down and traces his finger along my thigh, that I have to look away from him.
Because he uses his free hand to hold my hip as he focuses, his thumb finding the strip of skin that’s exposed between the waist of my pants and the hem of my top.
It slides beneath the fabric and caresses back and forth over my skin, making it pebble.
My breaths grow heavy as those little movements blaze through me like fire, so hot that I picture walking away and finding burn marks right where his thumb touched me. Caressing my hip as if it’s the most precious part of me.
‘All done,’ he says, though it comes out more like a growl with how raspy his voice has turned.
I’m glad his touch not only affects me. Now, how the hell am I supposed to turn around and face Isla after that?
How am I supposed to keep a straight head and focus on training when I feel like I’m burning up and need to get out of my clothes.
Isla and I make our way down to the baths together.
Both limping, exhausted and littered in bruises and smeared blue paint.
I told myself I wouldn’t come back down here unless I was with someone else or I had my dagger with me.
Right now I have both. My dagger strapped to my leg, where it was the entire training session, and Isla walking beside me.