I scrambled back, bringing my stick up.
“Good.” Cheriour nodded. “But keep your eyes open.”
“They are—” I cut myself off with a squeal when his pole rapped against my right shoulder. It didn’t hurt—he’d barely given me a love tap—but my heart still kicked into overdrive.
“Not good,” Cheriour tutted. “You closed your eyes. And lost concentration because you were arguing. Let’s try again.”
Beneath the hot afternoon sun, my life became a blur of movement. Block. Dodge. Duck. Sidestep. Repeat.
I’d never exercised so much in mylife.
By the end of the almost two-hour session, I was dripping with sweat, andsincerelywishing I still had my cotton panties. Swamp ass with wool fabric?Eek.
I pushed my sticky hair off my forehead, flapping the collar of my shirt to fan myself as Cheriour collected the stick from my shaking hands.
“That wasn’t awful,” he said.
I pouted. “Not awful? I did everything you asked!”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You did. Hence why it was ‘not awful.’”
“Jeeze. What the heck do I have to do to get a ‘halfway decent?’”
“Train harder.”
Train harder.Okay, sure. That’d get me through the next two weeks. But what happened after that? Quinn wanted me trained for areason, and it wasn’t so I could get toned arms and a chiseled six-pack. “What’s the point?” I asked.
“The point?” Cheriour held both poles in one hand, swinging them idly. He wasn’t even breathing heavy.
“I mean—” I fanned my face, but it didn’t do jack squat against the sweat trickling down my chin. “Look, I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer here, but let’s be real: I ain’t a kid anymore. And there’s a hard limit on how many new tricks an old dog can learn. I’m not gonna be a good fighter. Ever. And I’m sure you’ve got way better shit to do, so why waste time training me? What is the point?”
Cheriour scrutinized me for a long while. He let the poles rest against his side as he raised his other hand. He looked like he wanted to reach out and touch my shoulder. Which had my stomach twisting itself into a pretzel. In agoodway. Nervous anticipation. But then, after a very obvious pause, he ran his fingers through his hair.
And why, why,whydid that gesture leave me disappointed?
“Living is the point,” he mumbled. “I’ve seen enough death. I want to see you live. And I’ll do what I can to help you survive here.”
My heart did a weird stutter step.Damn.
Cheriour was walking proof that judging a book by its cover was a shit move. On our first introduction, I’d accused him of raping women because he looked like a Viking. And now I felt like absolute crap about that. Because under that burly appearance: the snarled beard, the frizzy hair, the face that never cracked a full smile—under allthat, there was a truly compassionate human being.
And a good-looking one too. Just a shame his face was buried beneath so much wild hair. “Can I ask you something?” I blurted.
Cheriour’s shoulders heaved. “What?”
“Can I cut your hair? Afullcut.”
His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”
“Look, I’m a hair stylist, so I know what I’m doing. And I wouldn’t go crazy; you have such pretty curls; it’d be a shame to chop them off. But they’re so weighed down right now. If I gave you a proper trim, those curls wouldpop.”
He tilted his head toward the sky in his now-familiarLord give me strengthpose and walked away.
“Is that a yes?” I called after him.
His shoulders twitched, but he didn’t respond.
“I’m definitely gonna get my fingers in his hair someday,” I muttered, tingling with excitement at the very thought.
