As the oldest of three girls, I was the surrogate son, living for the sparse moments when my dad bragged about whatever boyish feat I’d mastered. When I married Mark, my father got the son he’d always wanted and from that point forward ignored me completely. My husband, however, took pride in my accomplishments. Like Adtovar, Mark was an excellent teacher, never shying away from anything I wanted to learn or accomplish except SERE training. His hesitancy wasn’t due to doubting my abilities but simply knowing firsthand the brutal nature of the training. I’d come out of SERE with a black eye, three broken ribs, and two broken fingers. Mark never said a word, although I saw the regret in his eyes as he took in my black and blue body. Never wanting to make him feel that again, I moved into Naval Intelligence soon after, where the only physical challenge was twice-a-year PRT tests.
I’d always taken such pride in the strength and fitness of my body. Even as I grew older, I’d stayed a gym rat and ran the Peachtree Road Race just this past summer. Yet here in this alien world, thanks to a strange machine that took forty years off my body, I’d never felt stronger or more alive.
I bit back my smile at Adtovar’s surprised pleasure when I feinted away from a zornhaw—a downward cut—and slashed across his stomach, the tip of my dull blade leaving a faint red line on his pale skin.
“Excellent!” My teacher yelled, coming at me with a series of overhead cuts.
I dodged and retreated, setting myself up in an attack stance when I became aware of another pair of eyes on me.
Charick’s golden gaze focused on me, bright and burning like the overhead sun. His handsome face held the oddest combination of emotions. He looked appalled and a littleshocked, but the expression that struck me the most was how impressed he seemed. Warmth suffused my body, and I felt my cheeks flush and tingle, preening under his attention.
What the hell?
I was so enamored by his reaction that I nearly missed a slash, which, from anyone other than Adtovar, would have been a killing blow. Thankfully, I spun out of the way just in the nick of time and issued a switch kick to my trainer’s middle that put him on his ass with a proud laugh.
“Well done, Willa. Well done!” Adtovar beamed as he took the hand I offered to help him to his feet. He stood grinning proudly, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. I would have given anything to have my father react to my fighting prowess like that—just once.
“Although,” Adtovar added, rolling his shoulders. “I notice you still favor your right side when you retreat. A seasoned warrior would notice this weakness.”
“Got it.” I took this, like all his constructive criticism, with a nod of respect and rolled my shoulders, settling into a fighting stance.
Adtovar waved me off, nodding to where the waterskin lay in the shade.
“Take a break and get some water. I want to see what the Champion can do.”
Champion.
It was the second time Adtovar had called Charick that, and from the way the younger man’s shoulders tensed, he didn’t appreciate it. I wondered why. He stood completely still for a moment, his golden eyes assessing as Adtovar held out the scimitar's I’d used toward him. Then, with a curt nod, he stepped forward, taking the blades, weighing the weight in his open palms before long, strong fingers closed around the hilt.
His broad shoulders rolled as Charick settled himself into a battle stance. The leather stretched taut across muscular thighs and an ass one could bounce a quarter off of. The muscles of his arms rippled as he gripped the blades, then flipped the swords, one after the other, through the air as easily as juggling tennis balls.
Adtovar watched him, his face curious and amused, holding an expression I couldn’t quite place. But it flickered away, replaced by a slow smile.
“Playing with blades isn’t the same as fighting with them,” Adtovar chided.
After an extra high toss, Charick caught the blades, sinking into a fighting stance. “Whenever you’re ready, elder.”
Adtovar’s lips quirked up on one side as he shifted his weight to his front leg and attacked.
One of my husband’s favorite movies was a martial arts film calledCrouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. It was a visually stunning film known for the use of wires to stage otherworldly fight scenes, showing the heroine running up walls and sword fighting over the treetops. We watched it at least once a year while he was alive.
The action unfolding in front of me made the fight scenes in that movie look like a bunch of toddlers smacking each other with pool noodles.
The angry screech of dull blades meeting did little to take away from the mesmerizing action. I knew Adtovar was a good fighter, but Charick took it to a whole other level. He moved effortlessly. Not like a warrior, but a dancer. Every move was a graceful, breathtaking display of strength and agility. The two men danced around each other in a brutal ballet, both intent on keeping the sparring a test of endurance and skill.
Adtovar’s fighting kilt swung about his long legs. Not going to lie—the dude had good legs for an old guy. Charick’sleather pants and vest clung to every muscle, showing every ripple of strength and control.
Have mercy!
Thanks to the action, strands of dark hair came loose from Charick’s braid and flew around his face, laying across his forehead, and my fingers itched to brush them away. While sweat slickered Adtovar’s pale skin, moisture from exertion made Charick’s short pelt glisten like spun silk.
I loved my husband, but Charick was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, alien or not.
I shifted my stance, stunned to feel a slight wetness between my thighs. Good Lord, was watching Charick making me wet? Surely not. Surely, it was just sweat from my time sparring with Adtovar.
Or maybe not.
About the time I noticed the dampness, Charick tensed, nostrils flaring as he turned his head in my direction. Adtovar took the momentary distraction to sweep Charick’s feet out from under him, putting the large warrior on his ass amid a thick plume of red dust.
