“It’s either that or no deal,” I say, my voice firm, remembering the way Mathis had looked as he’d rounded the corner, chasing her down. If it had been me, I would’ve looked ten times as terrified at the thought of having lost her.
She hesitates before finally nodding. “Fine.”
I feela small pang of guilt as I realise how I’ve forced her hand. The trust between us, what little there was, has been shattered when she’d found out who I was, and why I’d brought her here. But I can’t afford to think about that right now. There are bigger things at stake.
With one hand on her wrist, the other on the small of her back, I guide her to where my horse is hidden. I lift her up onto the saddle, then swing up behind her, the familiarity of the movement making me smile. The way I press myself against her a little closer than need be also reminds me of our first days. The ride back to Aetherhold is quiet, the silence heavy with unspoken words. Every inch of my skin is aware of her presence, her warmth pressed against me, and it’s driving me mad.
When we finally reach the castle courtyard, I dismount first, then help her down. She’s about to turn and run off to her room when I grab her wrist, stopping her in her tracks.
“When you’re ready to apologise, you know where to find me,” I say.
She looks up at me, her eyes flashing with confusion. “I’m not sorry for running away. I told you, you would’ve too.”
I shake my head, my gaze holding steady on hers. “I’m not talking about that.”
She frowns, confused. “Then apologise for what?”
I take a deep breath, the words sticking in my throat. “You left, Eira. Without saying goodbye.” She blinks but doesn’t respond. I reach out and brush my finger along the curve of her cheek, feeling the flecks of fire in my irises catch flame at the mere touch of her. “Just in case you’re wondering, I would never, ever have done that to you.”
EIGHTEEN
Eirabella
The doorto the combat room creaks open as I push it, the sound echoing through the empty space like the world’s most ominous announcement. I’m already on edge, anxious about whatever torture Rylan has planned for me today, but as soon as I step inside, something feels different.
Then I see him.
Rylan is standing by the far wall, inspecting something on one of the weapon racks. But it’s not the sword in his hand that draws my attention. It’s him. My feet stumble to a stop, my stomach doing somersaults that leave me flustered.
He’s wearing what can only be described as a training outfit, though it’s far from the usual kind of training attire I’ve come to expect. No, this outfit was clearly designed with function in mind but with a hell of a lot of attention to form. Rylan’s form. Rylan’s honed-to-godly-perfection form.
The vest is deep midnight blue, the fabric unfamiliar to me,with a texture and weave unlike anything I’ve seen before. It has an iridescent sheen that catches the light, shifting between shades of silver and black. It’s snug in all the right places, clinging to his broad shoulders and tapering down to his muscled waist, belted with a silver clasp. The material molds to him, highlighting his form in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how well-built he is. And don’t get me started on the section over his abdomen—because apparently, even through armour, Rylan’s corded muscles can’t help but be on full display, the material outlining the ridges of his abdominal muscles as if it were designed with that very purpose in mind: to drive my desire into almost uncontrollable levels.
Which it probably was. Because the gods hate me.
My eyes narrow into a scowl before I can stop myself, irritation—at myself and at him—flaring up like wildfire. What kind of mentor looks like that? This isn’t fair. I’m here to train, to survive whatever brutal regimen he has in store, not to be distracted by the fact that he looks like he just stepped out of some fantasy warrior romance. It’s infuriating that my traitorous brain is even noticing these things, let alone having my body react to them.
It was easier when he wasn’t here. My memory of him had paled in comparison to the reality.
He takes a long step to reach for one of the swords, drawing attention to the bottom half of his so-called outfit.
The pants match the jacket, fitted perfectly to allow for movement, though they somehow manage to emphasise his muscular legs every time he shifts his stance. His boots are knee-high, polished but sturdy, clearly meant for someone who spends time battling the elements. Everything about this outfit is designed for practicality, and yet it just happens to make him look even more ridiculously attractive.
And that’s really pissing meoff.
As if finally feeling my eyes practically scraping over every inch of him, Rylan turns, catching sight of me, and those piercing eyes of his zero in on mine. I can’t stop the scowl that deepens on my face, embarrassment bubbling up inside me as I fight the urge to tell him off for looking so damn… well, like that.
“Disciple,” he says, his voice completely calm, like he isn’t aware of the turmoil he’s causing in my head, in my body. “You’re late.”
My scowl hardens, more at myself than at him, but he doesn’t need to know that. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m fazed by any of this. “Yes, well, you’re a week late. I’ve been here on time every day since you’ve been gone,” I snap, instantly regretting how flustered I sound.
His brow lifts, and for a moment, he looks genuinely surprised, as if he can’t quite figure out why I’m so annoyed. Then, in that infuriatingly calm way of his, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with what looks suspiciously like amusement. “Is something bothering you?”
Is he serious? I open my mouth to retort, but my brain is too busy short-circuiting over the fact that he might have just caught on to my ridiculous reaction. No way. He’s just fishing for something to get under my skin. That’s got to be it.
I cross my arms, more as a barrier than anything else, and force myself to hold his gaze. “Not at all,” I say, voice clipped, trying to channel all my frustration into sounding unimpressed. “I just didn’t expect you to be so… overdressed for a training session.”
His eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks down over his body, and I can see the wheels turning in his head, probably trying to figure out whether I’m being sarcastic or just critical. “This is functional, not fashion,” he replies, a little toosmoothly. “But if you’re not impressed, feel free to say so. I could just… take it off.”
