I offer a timid smile in return. “Thanks.”
“I’m Zaid,” greets the boy who defended me, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
He ducks his head, his cheeks tinting pink, and offers me a shy wave.
The last boy says nothing. He simply stares, his gaze almost unsettling. It reminds of an impromptu storm—no warning and capable of decimating entire cities.
A tendril of fear curls around my heart, tightening.
“That’s Rafe,” Krystian introduces, nudging him. “Don’t mind him. He stares at everyone. I think he was dropped on his head one too many times as a baby.”
“Does he talk?” I ask, frowning.
“Sometimes.” Zaid shrugs. “When it matters.”
Rafe doesn’t even blink, his unnerving gaze trained on me.
Everett grunts and turns back to the weapons, studying them as intently as Rafe’s studying me. “Whatever. You’re one of us now, so that means we got your back. Do you know how to use any weapons?”
Krystian throws an arm around my shoulders like we’re already best friends. “Yeah. We’ll look out for you.”
“We’re your boys now,” Zaid agrees, then blushes when he realizes how his words could be construed.
Heat enters my own cheeks.
Your boys.
Why do I like the sound of that?
I’ve never had anyone look after me before or care about me. I know my parents do, in their own way, but this…feels different. More permanent.
Rafe says nothing, but when I meet his eyes, he dips his chin once in the smallest of acknowledgments. Not a greeting. A promise.
I straighten my spine. “Good. Because I’m not here to be protected. I’m here to fight.”
Everett snorts. “We’ll see.”
Krystian whistles low, a wide smile blossoming on his face. “I like her already.”
Good.
Because I like you four already as well.
My palm slamsinto Everett’s chest, and I twist, using his momentum against him.
He hits the mat hard enough to rattle the floor beneath us.
“Damn,” he breathes, flat on his back.
I drop into a crouch beside him, grinning through the sweat dripping into my eyes. “Told you I could kick your ass without my dagger.”
He exhales a laugh, rough and disbelieving. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. You just got lucky.”
“No luck involved.” I shrug nonchalantly. “I’m just better than you.”
“Brat,” he playfully growls.
“Always.”
