He swats away my blade as easily as a fly.“Focus, Mia.Do as I told you.”
Though Ferntree’s harvest has already begun, winter maintains its tight grasp of each morning, and if asked, I will blame my shiver on the chill.
“Again,” he commands, a curl tugging at his mouth.
I’ve long lost hope of my heart fighting off the whims of my attraction for him.It is always dashed the moment his smile appears.
We’re alone.We’re always alone when we practice.No one likes to watch; the persistent clatter of steel is still too recent of a memory for many to endure.I do not judge them.We all bear our scars differently.
“You’re letting me win,” I say, dodging his next thrust.“You know how much I want to learn.In a real fight?—”
“You’ll never be in a real fight,” Sterling says, which is entirely unfair.I could if he let me.He’s lucky I don’t run him through.“As long as I’m still breathing, I will stand between you and the forces against you.”
My chest rises with a breathlessness only Sterling manages to achieve.Little wonder that the seed of my affection has rooted itself so deeply in every corner of my soul.Little wonder that he does not feel the same.
He steps to the right, but it’s a ploy, and he dodges my next move, countering from above.
“The curse has been lifted,” I say.“The sorcerer is gone.”
He’s holding back, but it’s still an effort to keep up with him.I strike harder, faster, angry that he is still treating me like a beginner.Like a child.
“There is no need to fight anymore.”
No need except my own selfish reasons to have this time with him.For a year, I’ve waited for him to call our training off, but he hasn’t.Instead, it’s only seemed to renew his determination to teach me.
“There is always a need.You should never walk into a room without the certainty that you can walk out.”
“That’s what I have you for.”
We clash, again and again and again.Attack, parry, block.Circling each other.Sweat slicks my hair to my skin, pools under my tights, but I give no ground.
Neither does he.
I dig deep, striking harder, faster, trying to surprise him.To no avail.There’s no surprising Sterling.No fight he isn’t ready for, no breaking his reserve.
Hauling the sword high above me, I try to strike overhead, but he meets my blade front on.Steel collides with steel between us, and he presses onward, taking me off guard, closing the gap.His armor touches mine.
My lungs startle, breath frozen in my airways.The blazing blue of his eyes lighting my blood on fire.
“Good.Do that again.”
I stumble out of the hold, adjusting my grip, my heart thundering in my chest.Frustration builds up within me, heating my blood, tuning my senses to none but him.Each step, each blink, each breath.
I see the opening—the shift in his weight, a step—and I strike.
He blocks the attack in time to keep the blade from his neck, but I’m moving too fast, and I follow him over as he falls back, hitting the ground with a rough thud.
All I hear is the heavy gasps of air pulled into my lungs as awareness filters in.I did it.I actually got him.
He shifts underneath me, and I start.I’m astride him, my knees planted on either side of his hips.His breath gusts against my cheek.
My sword is a beat away from his throat.
I search for a reaction, anything to prove I’m not alone in my feelings, but he’s unaffected.Only the pink of his cheeks, unnoticeable under a layer of dirt, would be proof that he’s exerted himself.
Years, I’ve pined, and there has never been proof.Why would he start now?
I get to my feet and offer my hand.He doesn’t need it—he’s stronger than me by multitudes—but he takes it anyway, and I savor the gruff texture of his palm for the scant seconds it lasts until he pulls away.
