He sighed, and a laugh escaped her as she let herself rejoice in this victory.
That is, until suddenly her hand was no longer holding her sword, and Ronan was lying on top of her. Her brain caught up with her body. He had disarmed her and rolled them over, pinning her legs between his knees, and holding her wrists in one hand while he held the blade against her throat with the other.
She wasn’t focusing on the sting of the sword against her skin, but instead was overwhelmed by the warmth of his weight and the electricity running through her veins. His mouth hovered above hers, curved into a small smile. She tried not to think about how if she lifted her head an inch, they would be touching. She definitely didn’t think of the many different ways that moment could play out.
A lock of his hair fell into his eyes, and she was prisoner to that small movement, unable to look away.
He wasn’t smiling anymore as he lowered his gaze to her lips, and she wondered if he was also thinking of how they might feelpressed against his. All she needed was for one of them to close that small distance between them.
“Murphy! Leave the poor rabbit alone!” Sárait’s voice pulled Clía from her thoughts, a reminder that they weren’t alone. Ronan pulled back suddenly, his face unreadable. Her cheeks flushed as she came back to reality. She was supposed to be winning back Domhnall, but here she was, wanting to kiss his best friend.
But her embarrassment was forgotten the moment she remembered how they’d gotten into that position.
“Can you teach me that?” she gasped.
He stood, pulling her up with him. “Get your sword.”
And so they practiced. Again and again, until she was able to execute the maneuver as fluidly as he did. Until they were confident she would be able to do it during a duel.
Kordislaen had yet to test the daltas against each other again, but they knew it was coming. They were nearing winter, and very few daltas had been sent home. They were all waiting for the cull.
The echo of Domhnall’s voice had blended with Kordislaen’s baritone.We cannot tolerate any perceived weakness.
Chapter Nineteen
Pain raced through Ronan’s muscles. His bones.
In that moment, lacing his boots seemed as impossible to him as climbing a mountain.
His room was quiet. The one small bit of peace he would get before his day began. He sat on his bed, breath heaving more than he would like for the simple task of getting dressed. Continuing training for an extra hour yesterday had been a mistake.
Ronan gritted his teeth, hooked his fingers through the strings, and forced himself to finish the motion.
“Getting an early start today?” Domhnall asked, leaning against Ronan’s doorframe.
Ronan eyed him, sitting up. “My door was locked.”
“And now it’s not.” The prince stepped inside.
He was dressed well despite the early hour, shirt pressed and hair tidy. Maybe he was meeting Niamh.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Domhnall wasn’t wrong. Ronan couldn’t find himself eager to be in his presence these past few weeks. The secrets, his unfair actions toward Clía—Domhnall wasn’t the friend Ronan knew. The prince he respected.
Pain flared in his ankles and knees as Ronan stood up. He didn’t falter. He reached for his belt and sheath.
Domhnall sighed. “Okay, you’re mad. What did I do to deserve your ire this time?”
Ronan’s brow raised. “You can’t guess?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Niamh. But that was weeks ago!” At Ronan’s glare, Domhnall found a sudden interest in the wall. “I had hoped my proposal to her would be well received, but I didn’t know. I thought it would be better to keep it to myself until everything was official. It wasn’t my intention to keep it from you.”
He had seen Domhnall manipulate nobles and chiefs; the prince knew how to act to get what he wanted. But truth coated his words now, and a part of Ronan’s anger faded.
“What about Clía?” Ronan asked.
Domhnall’s brow furrowed. “What about her?”
His obliviousness was as infuriating as a confession. Ronan had to bite his cheek to keep from raising his voice. “You seem to go out of your way to ensure she suffers.”
