Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Talen and Lucien are on the mat. Both stripped to the waist, both gleaming with sweat under torchlight, muscles flexing like drawn wire. Technically training, real enough to bruise. But the way they move, every strike calculated, every breath a challenge—this is a goddamn display.
A shoulder clips mine as someone pushes past, jolting me forward.
I blink, and glance around. I hadn’t even noticed the crowd.
The Rec Hall’s packed—Air Realm officers and cadets, I even spot Beth near the front, tongue practically hanging out.
Her gaze pinned to Talen as he ducks under Lucien’s strike, rolls, and comes up behind him with a smirk and a brutal counter that sends Lucien stumbling.
The crack of impact cuts through air heavy with heat and sweat, clinging to your skin, coating the back of your throat, thick as the tension in the crowd.
Someone nearby whistles low. I move fast before anyone can look back—head down, shoulders tight—until I reach the edge of the benches, arms crossed, lips pulled tight, pretending I’m not watching.
Even though I am.
In front of me, Lucien moves like a storm, dark skin, violence coiled in motion. With each step, the stone on the rope at his chest catches the candlelight, flaring bright before the glow spills over his skin, tracing the sweat that clings there.
He’s beautiful, but it’s Talen my eyes lock on to.
He’s a force, coiled power and lethal grace, all bronzed skin and sharp lines. Muscle cut lean and hard, not bulked but built for speed—every breath pulling tight across his broad chest, every shift rolling over his stomach in clean definition.
And yet, there’s no excess. No flourish. He doesn’t fight to impress. He fights like it’s instinct. Like it’s easy.
Maybe that’s why my gaze slips, drawn by the rhythm of him, following the movement lower, tracing the grooves where his stomach narrows into that deep hollow that disappears beneath his waistband—a sinful invitation carved straight into the strength of his body.
“You’re slowing, old man.” Talen mocks, grinning as he circles back.
“I’m a month older than you.” Lucien throws back.
“Exactly.”
The crowd leans in as they clash again, the air thick with tension. But Talen’s feet are light, his movements precise, like the mat was built for him.
When he twists to land a strike, I catch a glimpse of a mark above his heart and scars lacing his ribs, silver lines that only make him look more dangerous.
A crack echoes through the hall as his fist slams into Lucien’s jaw. The hit drives him back a step, but Lucien steadies, straightening with a grin that shows more teeth than smile.
But Talen doesn’t flinch, just shifts on to his back foot, spine curving, muscles coiled, already set for the next move.
Lucien lunges, but Talen drops low, rolls under and sweeps his legs out clean. The impact rattles the floor as Lucien hits the mat, the roar of the crowd swallowing the sound.
“You yield yet?” Talen rises over him, grinning.
“Fuck off.”
Talen offers him a hand, Lucien grabs it, yanks him forward—and they’re back at it, trading blows with the precision of killers who know exactly how far they can push without breaking bone. The crowd eats it up, every strike feeding the frenzy. And you can see they’re enjoying it too, both of them.
The sick part is, so am I.
My chest is tight, a fast thrum pushing under my ribs, every move snagging my attention. I shouldn’t be watching. I should walk away.
But I don’t.
Tomorrow’s my last assignment, after that, I’m gone. Free. So really, what’s the harm in watching? Just for a minute...
Not because I’m impressed, not because I care. But because I’ve been watched since the moment I set foot in this place. Measured. Scrutinised. So maybe, just this once, I’m allowed to look. Not at him, exactly. Just at the way he moves.
He’s still everything I’m supposed to hate. Do hate. He’s still a weapon, I haven’t forgotten that. But he did save my life. Twice. And for all his control, there’s a reckless edge under it—something that pulls the eye, no matter how hard I try to look away.
Doesn’t mean I want him.
It just means I’m not blind. And yeah, maybe I should be stronger than this, but I’m not because the truth is, I noticed him that first day in the courtyard—before I knew his name.
Does that make me weak? A hypocrite?
Probably.
But I can hate him and still admire the body right in front of me.
So maybe it’s not weakness, maybe it’s just honesty. I’ve got eyes, and right now, like everybody else in the room, they’re on him.
“You studying for technique or abs?” A voice murmurs behind me. I jolt, just enough to give myself away. Beth grins as she leans in, smug as ever. “Don’t worry, everyone’s staring. Hard not to. Talen fights like he fucks.”
God, I do not need that image in my head, but Beth would know, wouldn’t she? She’d said their parents had an arrangement. But maybe it was more than that... Maybe they’d—
No. Stop. I shove it down hard, jaw tight. Why do I even care? I roll my eyes and look back at the mat, face blank, refusing to let any of it show.
They’ve finally stopped. Talen’s grinning, panting slightly, one hand braced on his thigh. There’s blood at the corner of his lip, a smear of red against bronze, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Beside me, Beth lets out a soft sigh, too dreamy to be subtle, and pushes off the bench heading straight for Lucien. Hips swaying with practiced ease, like she’s stepping on to a stage, not a blood soaked sparring mat. He sees her coming, eyes light up like she’s exactly what he’s been waiting for.
Behind him, Talen spits to the side, then drags his tongue over his bottom lip, catching it briefly between his teeth before he turns—giving me his full back for the first time.
My gaze catches and holds.
Black scales follow the line of his spine in jagged, deliberate rows—ink worked into every ridge and hollow of muscle.
They start low, faint where they curl at the base of his back, more shadow than shape.
But with each vertebra, they grow darker.
The lines cut cleaner, the edges more defined, until the ink looks carved in.
By the time they reach his shoulders, the pattern fans wide—spreading across his back in angular arcs, each scale shaped like it could slice skin if you touched it wrong. And as he moves, they shift with him, flexing, catching light in a way that makes them seem alive.
I’m still staring, still tracking the ink, following the pattern as it pulls tight over the curve of his shoulders—when he turns, facing me head-on.
My breath catches, a sharp, unwelcome stutter cutting into the rhythm beneath my chest as my fingers curl against my thighs. Okay, maybe watching was a bad idea.
Gaze still locked on mine, lips parted, he wipes a line of sweat from his jaw with the back of his hand.
Then he moves, closing the distance in a few easy strides until he’s right there, close. Close enough for the heat of his skin to brush mine, for the sharp tang of sweat and something sour to catch in the back of my throat.
My skin suddenly feels too tight, too aware, like every inch of me is waiting, bracing. Then he leans in, hot breath brushing my ear, voice heavy from exertion.
“You guarding my clothes now? Or just hoping I’ll have to walk back to my chambers half naked?” he asks, gesturing behind me.
I follow his motion, look down and immediately want to hit myself. His shirt. His towel. His water flask, all sitting in a pile on the bench.
“Oh, I didn’t —”
“Don’t worry.” He teases. “I’ll let it slide, since you look like you’re enjoying the view.”
“Please. I’ve seen better.”
“Liar.” He replies as he reaches over me, grabs his towel and starts to wipe down, slow strokes across his neck and arms.
I push off the bench, trying to put some distance between us, but when the towel reaches his chest, I can’t help but notice the pale mark just above his heart—a patch of skin lighter than the rest, striking against the deep tan spread across his broad chest.
“You could always help.” He says, towel still moving. “Unless you’d rather just watch?”
I scoff, turning away quick. “You’d enjoy that too much.”
“Obviously.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, but inside a rising beat won’t quit. All week he’s been civil, holding doors, polite smiles. But this? This is the Talen I expected.
“So this is your idea of a good fake date?” I keep my voice, barely more than a whisper. “Sweat, blood, and a hall full of gamblers?”
“Don’t worry, Bloom,” Talen throws the towel over his shoulder. “No one can hear you.”
I blink and look around. The roar of the hall has dulled, like someone stuffed cotton in my ears.
“You threw up a silence shield in the middle of the Rec Hall?” I question, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you think that makes us look suspicious as hell? If we’re trying to convince everyone this relationship’s real, maybe they should actually be able to hear us.”
“Not really.” He shrugs, infuriatingly casual.
“If anything, it makes us look more convincing. Because if we were actually together...” His voice drops to something darker as he steps closer, erasing the space I put between us.
“…I’d be saying all sorts of things I wouldn't want anyone else to hear. Things that would have you biting your lip, things that would make you beg me not to stop.” He lingers for a second, I swallow hard.
Then, as easy as anything, he steps back, voice smooth, like he didn’t just set a match to my bloodstream.
“But we’re not real. So I’m not saying any of that.
” The fucking crooked smirk returns. “Unless you want me to?”
I turn away, fast—eyes searching for anything else, anywhere that isn’t him. Change the subject, focus, he’s just trying to get under my skin. Prick. My gaze lands on the bench, where his towel was, a leather-bound journal sits, dark and worn. I turn and reach for it.