Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
KINGSTON
I couldn’t sleep after the match. I could barely get myself to calm down, to lie down, to get the rest my body so desperately needed. And when I woke up before the sunrise, I couldn’t go back to sleep.
It feels incredible, all of it. Reminded me of everything I love about the sport: Precision. Restraint. Grace. Joy. Like a dance, an art form?—
—and one where I completely pulverized my opponent.
And ordinarily, that feeling would be enough for me to bask in all day.
But not today.
All day, from before sunrise until now, I’ve been acutely aware that she’s around somewhere. Footsteps on the stairs, a glimpse of her coat as she leaves to get coffee with Morgan. The soft click of her door.
Meanwhile, I pace the floors of Camlann House like a caged tiger, wondering if I should speak to her, whether there’s anything to say, or if I should just keep my distance .
I don’t need to bother her.
She has other things to think about, to deal with. And so do I, for that matter—schoolwork, cool-downs, active rest.
My mind should be anywhere but on her.
And it is.
I force it to be.
Until 7 p.m.
When I run a comb through my hair, pull on a sweater and a long coat—it’s gently snowing outside—and I almost run across campus, Emrys’s papers tucked into my bag, to the library.
Except I don’t even make it inside the building.
“It’s locked,” Gwenna says, nearly scaring me out of my skin at the entrance to the building as she slips out of the shadow of a lamp post.
“Locked?” I repeat. There’s a frown between her eyes and a set to her jaw.
“The B2 level,” she says. “Our usual…where we’ve been working.
” She nods at the broad wooden doors. “I went in there just now and couldn’t get in from the stairwell.
” She glances back again, slower this time.
“We could work in the main reading room, but…” She trails off, and I know exactly why.
It’d be all eyes on us—on me, if I’m being honest. And especially after last night.
Not conducive to focus. Not what I want.
“We could go back to Camlann House,” Gwenna suggests, but her tone of voice matches my thoughts.
“No,” I say, “too chaotic.”
It’s not precisely the truth, but the presence of the others won’t be suited to studying. There’s no good private place to do it, either. The living or dining rooms are right on the first floor, and a bedroom, well…
My heartbeat spikes.
That’s not an option.
I hear a faint clicking sound, and I look at Gwenna. Her teeth .
“You’re cold,” I say. “You should get inside.”
“I know that,” she says, “but where? The dining hall is closed.”
And suddenly an idea grabs me.
“I know where.”
I feel in my coat pocket. The key is in there, for emergencies only. Who’s to say if this qualifies? But…
“Come this way.”
I gesture and she follows, down the path that crosses Grove Quad, past the Classics building, to the quieter side of campus, where Luther Pendragon, president of the Caliburn University board of trustees, has his office.
Gwenna’s a silent presence behind me as I swing open the front door, walk down the hallway and to the right and fit the tiny key into the lock. The door gives and I push it open.
“In here,” I say.
The frown returns to her face.
“Where are we?”
I don’t see the point in lying to her.
“My father’s office. We won’t be disturbed.”
She steps in, and I follow, and the door shuts with a heavy click. We’re both inside, before I’ve really thought it through.
“Wow.”
She looks up and around, taking in the massive space, the windows gleaming with moonlight, the desk and its platform, the books, the sitting area.
“I know. Hardly showy at all.” I move to the light switch, and then think better of it—with the lights on in here, it’ll be bright as a supermarket, a dead giveaway from outside that someone’s in here when they shouldn’t be.
Instead, I gesture for her coat, which she slides off and hands over. I hang it on the rack, followed by mine, as she steps closer to a display case behind the armchairs and near the bar .
A trophy case.
She leans in a little closer, alights her fingertips on the top of one of the golden figures poised in a lunge, weapon out, on top of the cup.
“Yours or his?” she asks and darts a look back at me. I don’t answer because, to be honest…
“I’m not sure,” I say. She gives a light snort, turns back to the case. A photo of me, age 11 or so, mask under my arm, blade held up in a salute.
“Would you look at that,” she says, tipping her head to the side.
“What?” I ask, genuinely curious. I step to her side, fold my arms, and follow her gaze.
“You don’t see it?” she says. “You look serious even then.”
I remember that photo. The junior tournament in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Punishingly long days. Throbbing feet. Aching muscles. Aching everything.
“I won,” I say.
“I’m sure you did.”
There’s a frisson of something between us. Unspoken. Intense. Too much. I’ve forgotten why we were here. And I need to remember. Having this much energy inside me is doing things to my thinking.
“I have the facsimiles,” I say. Turn away from her and pick up my bag to put it on the coffee table. “I haven’t looked at them yet, but?—”
“So you’ve really always been all business,” Gwenna says, turning very slowly as she walks to the chair opposite me.
She doesn’t sit in it, instead glides down to the floor, sits cross-legged with her back at the foot of the chair so she can reach for the papers as I produce them.
“Focused,” I say, tidying the stack of papers against the edge of the table. “Yes. ”
“But you enjoyed it last night,” she says. “Didn’t you?” She shakes her head, eyes still intent on the manuscript facsimile. “Granted, I don’t know anything about fencing, obviously, but it was like…like watching an entirely different sport all of a sudden.”
My heartbeat raises again. Like I’ve just lunged forward.
“I may have gotten carried away,” I admit.
She gives a short laugh.
“Well, as your equipment manager, I’m glad you did. Gave me something to do.”
I spread out the sheets in front of us, the spidery lettering in uneven tilting rows written out by someone arthritic in the days before college-ruled notebook paper.
Gwenna’s green eyes go wide, and she leans forward, intrigue and excitement all over her face, her hair brushing her shoulders as she scans over them.
She bounces a tiny bit in place on her knees, like she can’t wait, like this is fun.
I smile, and forget to fight it.
I get down the floor too, sink to my knees, look at the facsimiles, then look at her face. She must notice because she looks up, too. At me.
“What?” she says quickly, all enthusiasm drained away in an instant.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I say. “It’s just…”
I tense my mouth to the side, press my hands to the table, try to pin down the thought that’s floating around in my mind.
“I think that’s how I felt,” I say at last. “Last night, when I was on the strip against Moroslav. The way you’re looking at these. Like it wasn’t work or something I had to do, but…”
“…something you get to do.” She finishes for me and catches my eye.
I can only nod. “Yes. ”
“ Yes ,” she repeats, mocking my tone of voice. “Who talks like that? You can’t say yeah or sure ?”
I smile.
“Sure.”
Gwenna rolls her eyes, blows out a breath, and even though the light in here is dim, I catch a hint of a blush across her cheeks.
It’s nice. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.
“Here,” I say.
I rise, go to the console and pick up two of the tapers there, a book of matches. I set them on the table and I’m about to strike when realization hits me.
“Never mind,” I say, gathering the candlesticks. “That was rude of me. I shouldn’t?—”
A hand catches my wrist, stops me.
“It’s fine,” Gwenna says. “I’m not—I can handle it.”
I look at her, intently, making sure she’s telling the truth and not just trying to please me.
And yet. The very thought that she would do something just to please me is…
I swallow hard. The blood in my wrist beating against the pressure of her fingers.
“Really, Kingston.” She gives a small nod, releases me. “Get some light in here so we can work.”
I nod, place the candlesticks on either side of the table, and light the wicks.
In the soft light, she looks…beautiful.
Very beautiful.
And I realize too late that I’ve set this up.
Candlelight.
Seclusion.
A Saturday evening.
“I can’t make heads or tails of it,” she says, shuffling some of the papers around, “if I’m being honest. It’s probably some weird riddle again, like a Sator square, or a palindrome, or?—
I can’t see anything from where I am. I ease myself around the edge of the table so I’m sitting next to her, bumping her knee by accident, which she ignores, and so do I.
“Hmm,” I say, looking down at the text, squinting, pretending to focus on anything that isn’t the brief touch of our bodies. “Maybe I need reading glasses.”
“It could be Carolingian minuscule,” she says. “The way it’s all slanted like this?”
She points at the sheet, tilts her head again, brows drawn. “But that wouldn’t make any sense. That’d be French origin. Didn’t he say something about all the new manuscripts coming in from Italy?”
“I…”
I’ve barely been listening to a word she’s said. I’m looking at her profile, the faint gold glow around the edges, the turn of her lips.
I keep trying not to do it.
Trying not to think it.
But my resolve is wearing thin.
“Or maybe…” She trails off, looks at me. “What now?”
There’s exasperation in her voice, but it feels forced. Just a hint playful, with the curve at the corners of her mouth.
“Are you gonna keep looming like that all night, or are we actually gonna get anything done? We only have until Monday, you know, and?—”
“I owe you a thank you.” The words burst out of me like buckshot. I lower my eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I interrupted. You were?—”
“It’s okay,” she says, and gives a little laugh. “Look, I’m doing it too.” She swallows. “Thank you for…what?”
“For… ”
For doing all the work on these godforsaken projects.
For getting my foster brother to calm down and Lanz to relax and Callahan to say more than two words in a row once in a while.
For Friday night.
For this night. Now.
“For lots of things,” I say out loud.
For everything.
And in that moment, I know. I know I’m going to do it. I know all is lost, and I don’t care.
I lean forward and kiss Gwenna Vale.
I was prepared to hold back. To press myself just to the edge of the line, commit the forgivable offense, the momentary lapse.
But as soon as I taste her, I know I can’t.
A soft, startled noise from her throat gives way to something low and liquid—a purr, a hum, Jesus God —and I surge forward, clasping the back of her head and pulling her into me, against me, clutching for her waist with my other hand.
Our mouths break apart as I ease her down, just enough space for me to rasp the only word I can remember.
“Gwenna.”
Her eyes fly open, her hair fanning behind her as her head comes to rest on the plush surface of my father’s Persian carpet, and the juxtaposition, the sheer sight of her, here, like that, only spikes the frenzied feeling coursing through me.
“Kingston,” she whispers. “You…we…” Her throat bobs. “Is this okay?”
I know what she means.
Know what she’s asking.
But I won’t answer that.
“If it’s okay with you,” I reply.
She nods, and it’s all the signal I need. I sweep down and take her mouth again, hard .
She’s sweet and warm and suddenly I want all of her. Now.
I press deeper, kiss her even harder, but my hands feel clumsy, confused.
For all my deftness with a weapon, all the grip strength and finger drills, I’m stymied by this—where to touch her, how and when and how fast. I skim a palm down her side, almost timid, as I kiss her deeper, pulse pounding, and she turns into my touch, pressing her breast into my hand.
God.
A choked sound escapes me. I’m half-hard already.
Instinct takes over. I skim my thumb over the peak of her breast, suck in a breath as it stiffens even through her sweater, then drag my touch lower, to the waistband of her skirt. At that, she flinches, and I pull back instantly, but when my vision clears enough to see her she’s shaking her head.
“Sorry,” she murmurs. “You…surprised me.” She presses her lips together. “Don’t stop.”
I nod, and do what I do best.
I obey.
Or I try to.
Because there’s something. A thudding sound, pounding, a rhythm that isn’t the deafening sound of my heart.
My fingertips find her skin.
The sound picks up.
I don’t want to hear anything, don’t want it to be anything.
But my instincts are too sharp. My training won’t let me ignore it.
Unmistakable.
Footsteps.
I tense, only a little, and Gwenna pulls back, panic sketched all over her face.
She hears it too.
“Is that—” She glances at the door. “Your father?”
In a half second, I’m on my feet. Look left, right, point to the corner with the fold-out screen—souvenir from Istanbul, a fruitless trip to investigate Arabic manuscripts.
“Hide,” I say to her.
She doesn’t question, just nods and scrambles up and behind it, and not a second too soon.
Because the door blows open, the shattered lock spinning as it rams against the wall.
It’s not my father.
It’s Kai.
“There you are,” he says, panting, sweeping his hair from his face. “I saw the light in the window and?—”
“What’s going on?” I say.
Kai grimaces.
“You better come with me,” he says. “Something’s happened.”