Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Reset.”
My training blades clatter to the deck as I fold over, resting my hands on my knees.
Sweat drips down my face, and my chest heaves as I try to catch the breath that Weston is doing his best to make sure I never do.
This afternoon, he and Sig pulled out the training weapons to work out some more restless energy in the crew.
I spent most of the day helping Fin and Roley, who stayed on the ship after last night.
Roley was excited to have his own child-sized bow, just like Fin’s, which made their target practice much more effective, and fun for them.
Weston came over to watch while on a break from the lessons he was giving Gauge. He had stopped by the ship this morning and ended up staying the entire day, and was quite excited when he saw the swords.
Standing beside me with his arms crossed over his chest, Weston called some advice out to Roley and Fin, which was met with a chorus of very serious ‘Aye, Captains’, followed by intense concentration etched on their faces.
Before heading back to the rest of the crew, he leaned toward me, his voice low and filled with challenge.
“Come over once I’m finished with them. You’re mine for the rest of the evening.
” I tried to keep the blush from my cheeks as he walked away, doing my best to avoid watching him saunter across the deck, back to the eager group waiting for his next instruction.
Keeping a straight face for the rest of the day and trying to hide my anticipation of finding out what he meant by the challenge was difficult.
But as the crowd slowly dispersed, and the boys Weston had been working with all day sat off to the side, it was clear he actually meant training.
He sauntered across the deck toward me, a set of swords in each hand, and a wicked smirk on his face.
We’ve been here ever since, in our own training ring, because Weston decided today was the best day to teach me how to use two swords at once. Hours have passed, and despite the complete exhaustion and aching muscles, I’m more invigorated than I’ve ever been in a training session with Brynne.
Now that our relationship is no longer the antagonistic captain and the defiant captive, Weston’s lessons are completely different, even more than the day he taught me to disarm him with my dagger.
He isn’t afraid to touch me, to let his hands or gaze linger, or push me harder than he would have.
Where he was patient and understanding before, he’s now firm but playful.
If training had been like this my entire life, I can’t imagine how skilled I would be with a sword.
“I need a break,” I gasp, still sucking air in deeply. I lift my head from where it had fallen between my shoulders and look at him across the deck. The colors of the sunset behind him are vibrant pinks and oranges, and the last light of the day makes the sweat on his skin glisten.
“Your attackers won’t stop to give you a break,” he says, fists resting on his hips, still holding both swords he has been fighting me with.
“Who’s going to attack me? Them?” I throw a hand out toward the crew sitting off to the side, watching our training.
“I’ll fight you if you need me to, Lennox,” Veck calls out, and Weston scowls, leveling his sword at him.
“No.”
Veck laughs and holds his hands up in a mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Captain.” The group mutters and laughs, and taunts about who would beat each other in a real spar make me smile, especially once they place bets on it.
“Let’s go, princess,” Weston yells, and I groan loudly, snatching my swords off the boards below and getting my feet back into position.
The weight of the swords feels heavy on my overworked muscles, and my clothes are damp and sticking to my skin. I can only imagine how wild my sweat-soaked and windblown waves are after spending hours on deck, but the way Weston still looks at me with heat in his gaze tells me he doesn’t mind.
Raising my blades, I watch him, waiting for his first move. He hasn’t used the same one since we started sparring, and constantly varies his approach so I can’t pick up on any patterns or slack off.
When our eyes lock, his lips curl into a smirk. He straightens, his shoulders relaxing, and his arms falling out of his fighting stance. I eye him warily. I can’t trust that he’s taking a break, not after he just scolded me for wanting one. No, he’s up to something.
I track his movements, watching as he takes both hilts into one hand, as if he’s changed his mind about the attack.
His free hand drifts to the hem of his shirt, which already sticks to his taut muscles beneath despite being halfway unbuttoned and exposing his glistening chest. My eyes follow his movements as he reaches the hem and tugs it from his waistband.
He lifts it slowly, exposing every curve of his abdomen, his raised scar, all the way up to his chest, and uses the fabric to wipe the sweat off his brow.
My mouth parts slightly, and I can’t pull my eyes away. A bead of sweat rolls between the muscles, and I catch my lip between my teeth. My muscles are tense from holding this position, but all I can think about is stripping that shirt the rest of the way off him.
I don’t catch his attack until the last second, and barely have enough time to react.
He darts across the deck, swords back in each hand, and swings both of them at me in a downward blow.
I throw my arms in the air with all my strength, just quick enough for our blades to crash together.
My muscles quake from the amount of strength that it takes to hold him off, but he just grins at me in the space below the intersection.
“See something you like, sweetheart?”
I glare at him. “You did that on purpose.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” he says, a devious glint in his eye.
“Asshole,” I mutter and continue to stare him down between our raised arms.
He lowers his head, the grin still irritating as ever, yet it still makes my stomach flutter.
“We’ve already covered never letting your guard down, so here’s the next lesson. Never let the enemy distract you. They’ll use anything they can against you, and you can’t let it affect your goal: to stay alive.”
He presses a quick kiss to my lips then steps away, the metal of the blades singing as they slice down each other and separate.
“Again.”
“That wasn’t fair,” I say, narrowing my eyes and pointing the tip of my blade at his chest.
“Enemies don’t play fair.”
I look around the main deck, which has remained empty except for the boys still watching us train.
“I still don’t see any enemies,” I say. “But I guess if we’re playing games…
” I reach up to the top button of my shirt and pull it open, watching as his eyes are now the ones tracking my movements.
“I am getting mighty overheated.” Tugging the fabric away from my chest, I fan myself with it, letting the air cool me down as I tilt my head and raise an eyebrow at him.
I slide my fingers down the fabric to the next button, ready to tug it open, when the flat of his sword slaps the top of my hand.
“Don’t you dare, princess.” He jerks his head to the side, toward the rest of the crew. “They don’t get to lay eyes on you. You’re mine.”
“Well then don’t play dirty,” I say, leaving that top button undone, knowing that the curve of my breasts peeking out from the top of my shirt is going to be enough of a distraction for him, and may even end this training session early.
“I’ll save that for later.” He swats the curve of my ass, and I yelp, my head snapping to his only to find a deep smirk and playful eyes as he steps back and raises his swords again.
“Will you two stop flirting and get back to the fighting? I’ve got a lot riding on this next spar,” Ryum yells, and Weston smiles widely, his gaze falling to the floor as if he’s trying to hide his moment of happiness, and my chest swells.
“Again,” he commands, raising his eyes to fix on mine once more, and I lift my blades. He doesn’t try to distract me this time. I’m ready for his attack as he steps toward my side, circling around me and forcing me to use the footwork he’s been correcting and adjusting all afternoon.
“Are you ever going to tell me?” I ask over the clash of metal. The movements feel natural, more natural to me than when I only have one sword, but I don’t know if that is just because I’m better using both hands, or the superiority of Weston’s teaching.
“Remind me what I’m supposed to tell you?”
“About Dane. You promised you would explain what I don’t know.”
He steps back, avoiding a swipe I thought would hit home, before barreling forward at me again, forcing me to back up quickly and defend.
“I’m not sure I want to do that with weapons in your hands.”
“What? Are you scared I’ll beat you if I’m fueled with rage?”
“I have no doubt you can do that already, princess. Rage or not.” I swipe again, this time at his throat, so close that if he hadn’t arched out of the way in time, I might have won.
I level the blade at his chest, my jaw clenching as I stare him down. “Talk, Captain.”
A series of chortles and whoops echo from the group watching as Weston spins the hilt of the sword in his hand.
“I do love when you get like this,” he says, his grin threatening to break my resolve. “Makes me want to throw you over my shoulder and fuck all that aggression out of you.”
I step forward, striking at him with each arm in sequence, just as he taught me. He easily blocks every one, his sultry smile not wavering a bit.
“Save it for after. Right now, I want to hear all of it.”
It’s only now that his features soften, but his movements don’t. He still challenges me, forcing me back striking, pushing, turning, trying anything to throw me off balance, but I hold firm. The only sound is the clink of our swords with each movement, before Weston finally speaks.
“What do you know about your family?”