I cross my arms over my chest, tapping a finger against my bicep. “Ohhh, this is about Varek. You’re still salty he didn’t take you under his wing?”
“I don’t need anyone to carry me,” Zeyv growls.
I hum. “Right. Because you’re a big, strong, independent lizard-man who definitely isn’t still crying over the fact that Varek didn’t see whatever potential you think you have.”
More murmurs from the gathered group. Some smirk behind their hands, others shift slightly—torn between amusement and the growing likelihood that this is about to get physical.
Zeyv’s claws flex at his sides.
And there it is.
The truth of it all.
It’s not just that Varek has always had a soft spot for me—it’s that he didn’t have one for Zeyv. The jealousy oozes off him like oil.
“You think you’re special?” he hisses. “You think because you can swing a blade and piss off the right people, you matter?”
I let out an exaggerated gasp. “Me? Piss people off? That can’t be right.”
A couple of chuckles ripple through the crowd, which only seems to fuel Zeyv’s frustration. He steps into my space, the heat of his breath hitting my face, his scaled fingers curling into fists. I don’t back up. I just tilt my head up to look him dead in the eye, my stance loose but ready.
“Careful,” I say, voice low, my blade still warm in my grip. “If you want to dance, I don’t lead, Zeyv. I finish.”
His eyes flick to the dagger in my hand, then back to my face.
Oh, he wants to. Every instinct in his oversized, overcompensating body is screaming at him to take a swing.
But here’s the thing. Zeyv’s strong. He’s fast. But he’s predictable.
And he knows it.
He also knows that if he starts a fight with me here and loses? It’ll never go away.
He hesitates, nostrils flaring, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. And then, just as I see the decision form in his narrowed eyes?—
“Zeyv.”
The voice that cuts through the thick air is frigid. Commanding. I don’t need to turn to know who it is.
Varek.
And judging by the silence that falls over the training grounds, I’m not the only one who just got a chill down my spine.
Varek stands like an immovable wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp as it sweeps over the gathered Riftborn. But it’s not him who steals my breath—it’s Kael. He’s right beside Varek, silent and brooding, his dark eyes locked on me.
Goddamn.
I eat him up with my eyes, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders are stiff, the slight crease on his forehead. He looks tired—and hella pissed off. My stomach swoops, heat licking at my skin because I can feel it, that barely contained rage simmering beneath his composed surface.
I straighten slightly, rolling my shoulders. What the hell is his problem? Is he pissed at me?
Varek speaks, but Kael stays silent, a sentinel of barely leashed fury. “Zeyv.” His voice is like the crack of a whip, sharp and cold.
Zeyv doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower like some would in the face of that tone. Instead, he lifts his chin and says, “Just trying to help. Wanted to spar with Sonny.” His forked tongue flicks briefly, but his eyes remain on me.
I smile, slow and sharp. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Varek shifts his attention to me, assessing, no doubt weighing whether this is a terrible idea. Eventually, his lips press into a flat line, and he gives a single nod. “Fine. But if you get yourself killed”—he looks at Zeyv—“don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
