Chapter Forty-Two #2
He shrugs, defeated, and heads into the hall after her. Rowan and I follow, stepping inside and spotting Ezzy already up on the middle row. I take a step, but a hand catches my arm—Talen. The sight of him punches the air from my lungs.
He pulls me aside, and the noise of the Rec Hall instantly blurs, like someone yanked the volume down on the whole damn room.
For a second, he just holds my gaze, chest rising hard adjacent mine, and I’m right back there—remembering the other night. From the look in his eyes, so is he.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon.” I say, aiming for casual, not sure if I hit it.
His expression shifts—shoulders tensing, eyes turning more serious.
“I’m assisting in today’s class, and I wanted to talk to you first.” He rakes a hand through his hair, then turns slightly, gaze skimming the wall behind me instead of my face. “I wanted to check we were okay. That you didn’t read into the other night. I’m not built for… love.”
I blink. I’m not looking for flowers and vows, but still.
It stings. Just a little. But I bury it before it can surface.
Because this thing, whatever it is, isn’t about feelings.
It’s not about emotion. And I sure as hell don’t want him thinking it is, especially if it keeps him away.
I’m not trying to hold his heart, I want his hands, His mouth.
That fucking dangerous body back between my thighs.
I want a distraction, not a damn devotion. So I make myself clear.
“Who said anything about love?” I say, shifting my weight, arms folding. “Don’t flatter yourself. It was one night. Maybe I just needed an itch scratched.” A shrug, careless, weaponised. “Plus I’m not stupid enough to fall for a man whose game I still don’t understand.”
“Good.” His gaze turns back to me. “So we agree?”
“Sure,” I say, one brow arched in suggestion. “We keep it physical. Functional allies… with very effective benefits.”
His jaw flexes. “No. I’m supposed to be protecting you, Lyra, not fucking you. Intimacy muddies decisions,” he adds. “And I can’t afford that.”
I tilt my head. “So what? Just act like it never happened? Back to playing pretend, fake date, eyes forward, no touching?”
“It’s best for both of us.”
“Right,” I murmur, voice dropping a shade darker. “We won’t do it again. Fleeting moment. A mistake.”
His eyes lock on mine like he’s trying to pin me in place. “Fine. If that’s what you want to call it.”
No, I don't want to call it that; it wasn’t a mistake. Not when every part of me still remembers how his mouth tasted—fire and smoke and the soft catch of his breath when I scraped my nails along his back.
“We both know it wasn’t a mistake,” I push.
“Lyra…” His tone softens, warning, almost pleading.
I glance over towards Ezzy, then back at him. I don’t want to give him any more time to convince himself it was a mistake. I want him back in my bed. “I’m not arguing about this. Not here. Not now.”
His jaw flexes. “We need to talk about it at some point.”
“Well, good luck with that.” I turn before he can answer, and walk straight toward Ezzy, fast, steady, pretending my pulse isn’t still wrecked from just hearing my name on his lips.
As I slide into the seat next to Rowan, Talen steps on to the mat.
Black training gear, sleeves rolled, every line of him coiled and controlled.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t have to.
One slow curl of his fingers, barely a gesture, and the entire Rec Hall drops into silence like the air’s been sucked out of the room.
“Professor Strannt’s been called to the Outerlands,” he says, scanning the room once.
“As such, I’ll be assisting for the next few weeks.
” A pause as he drops his hand and releases our voices.
“Now, first off, I wanted to congratulate you all. The fact that you’re sitting here?
You’ve already made it further than most. Call Week.
Demonstrations. All of it’s designed to break you, not teach you.
Look around. Only the strongest are still breathing.
” He paces, arms crossed now. “But your next challenge is the Second-year Trials, eight weeks from now, summer term. It'll come fast. As such, effective immediately, Demonstrations are over. We’re shifting to live combat drills and controlled power work. No more killing each other.”
God, these fucking Citadel rules. Kill off the weak so they don’t waste time training anyone who won’t make it. Fucked-up system, and the worst part? It works.
Talen drops his arms to his waist and turns until his gaze finds mine. “Cadet Bloom.” Eyes narrow. Smile doesn’t follow. “Mat. Now.”
I pause, just for a second. Half-expecting this to be a joke, but one look at his face tells me it’s not. He’s serious.
What’s his plan? Does he think throwing me in a chokehold is gonna make me admit we made a mistake the other night?
A few cadets start shifting, heads swivelling in quiet interest towards me. Great. I'm not turning this into a scene. So I stand, shoulders stiff, and make my way down.
“Why the hell did you call me?” I hiss as I step on to the mat.
“We didn’t finish our conversation.” He replies, shoulders straight, jaw tight, not a crack in sight. The mask is back, the one he wears when the senior officer uniform does the talking.
“And you thought here would be the best place?”
“Well, I know how much you love kicking me in the groin—what, twice now? You could always make it a third…” There’s a small tug at his mouth.
Not a smile. A challenge. Then louder to the room, “You’ll all get your turn to spar with an officer.
In the meantime, watch carefully. Cadet Bloom’s about to Demonstrate what to do—and what not to do. ”
Talen shifts into stance—feet set, shoulders square, hands loose and ready. No tension. No tells. Just calm, practised violence.
“Cadet Bloom,” he says, gaze fixed, that grin pulling wider. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Fuck him.
One grounding inhale, then I move first, because letting him set the rhythm would be suicide.
No punches, that’d be useless against him. Instead, I drop low, muscles tense as I drive toward his leg—heel hooking behind his knee, aiming to knock his balance before he can use it against me.
It’s fast, clean, and practised. I feel the strain through my hips, the jolt in my joints from impact, but he pivots out of reach like he felt the air shift. Effortless.
Fine.
I grit my teeth and keep moving—try again, using the momentum to twist, shoulders burning as I drive back into his space. My elbow lashes up toward his ribs—not to land a hit, I know better—but to force him to block, open a gap, give me something.
But he just shifts again, controlled as ever, like he’s not even trying.
I’ve seen him fight before, with Lucien, but that was from a distance. This? Up close? It’s something else entirely; his reaction speed is inhuman. Like he reads muscle tension faster than thought. It pisses me off how good he is.
My heart rate kicks up, I go low—legs straining as I shift into a sweep that nearly takes him out. He slides back and grins like I’ve just confirmed something for him.
Asshole.
“Glad to see you’re not holding back.” His voice is maddeningly calm as we circle again. “Always nice to see those thorns you’re hiding…”
I don’t answer. Just breathe. Hard. Fast. Each inhale sounds too loud—sharper than it should. I glance around. The Rec Hall’s still buzzing—cadets talking, shifting, shouting over each other. But I can’t hear any of it.
The fucking bastard’s fighting me one-handed and still able to throw up a silence shield around the whole damn mat. I hate how impressive that is. Worse, I hate that it’s hot.
“You said you wanted to finish our conversation,” I say, trying to keep my tone flat, not letting him see how out of breath I'm getting. “So what do you want to say?” I dart in again, testing him with a short jab toward his shoulder. He knocks it aside like brushing dust from a coat.
“That you were right,” he replies, stepping in just close enough to make me shift back. “I don’t think it was a mistake.” He ducks under my next blow, then spins behind me, close enough to touch. “But it still shouldn’t happen again.”
I move fast, trying to catch him off-balance, but he reads it and slips back before I can plant a heel in his shin.
“Why?” I throw the word at him like a weapon. “I know you enjoyed the other night as much as I did. Don’t even try to deny it.”
We break apart, then clash again, close and fast. I drive my weight into a low feint, then snap a hand up toward his jaw. He catches my wrist mid-air.
“Just because I want you in my bed.” He shoots back, not letting it go, “doesn’t mean I’ll act on it.
” He releases me, fast. I stagger back a step “Besides,” he adds, chest rising slow, as if we haven’t been moving at all, “even if I wanted to, even if I thought it wasn’t a mistake, you don’t trust me. Remember?”
We circle again, feet quiet against the mat. He’s not coming at me. Still holding back. Still giving me the space to burn myself out.
Which just annoys me even more.
So I press in, hard and fast. A quick step, then I pivot, slipping under his arm and aim to drive my fist into his gut—just below the sternum. But he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he moves with it. Lets me brush past, then turns and sweeps my leg clean out from under me.
My back hits the mat. Hard. Breath leaves me in a grunt and before I can move, he’s already standing over me—hands at his sides, posture calm, infuriatingly composed.
“Sleeping together doesn’t require trust,” I bite out, glaring up at him, chest rising too fast, ribs aching with every pull of air.
“It does for me.” He replies, extending a hand out.
I slap it away and push to my feet on my own. “Since when, didn't bother you the other night.”
“It was a slip of judgment; won’t happen again. I don't want to get in bed with someone who thinks I could be their enemy.”