And sitting there, clean-faced and held close, wrapped in his arms with his hands slowly exploring the curves of her back, Liliane felt something settle inside her—a sense of rightness, of belonging, that she'd never experienced before.
This man had somehow become the person she trusted most in the world. Who saw her as beautiful even when she was covered in clay and trying to be something she wasn't. Whose touch set her skin on fire and made her feel safe all at once.
Maybe, just maybe, she was falling in love with him.
And, wrapped in his arms with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear and his hands warm on her body, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The training yard was empty save for them, and Liliane's heart hammered as Tòrr led her to the center of the space, a small dirk gleaming in his hand.
"First lesson," he said, holding up the blade so she could see it properly. "This is nae a sword. Ye willnae be swingin' it about like some warrior in a tale. This is a tool fer close quarters, fer when someone's already too close and ye need tae make them regret it."
"So it's fer stabbin’ people." Her voice came out more uncertain than she'd intended.
"Aye, if it comes tae that." He moved closer, offering her the dirk hilt-first. "Take it. Get used tae the weight."
She wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped handle, surprised by how heavy it felt despite its small size. "It's heavier than I expected."
"That's good. Means it'll dae real damage if ye use it right." He circled around her, studying how she held the weapon. "But yer grip is all wrong. Ye're holdin' it like a lady holdin' a teacup—delicate, careful, afraid it might break. This thing's meant tae break other things, nae tae be protected."
"How should I hold it then?"
"Like ye mean it." He stopped behind her, so close she could feel his body heat. "Like–if someone tries tae hurt ye, ye'll make them bleed fer it. Show me yer grip again."
She adjusted her hold, trying to seem more confident, but his hand closed over hers before she could settle into position.
"Nae like that. Yer thumb needs tae be here, along the spine of the blade. Gives ye more control." His calloused fingers guided hers, repositioning each digit with careful precision. "And yer grip needs tae be firm but nae tense. If ye're white-knucklin' the handle, yer movements will be stiff, predictable."
"This is more complicated than I thought."
"Most things are." His breath stirred the hair at her temple. "Now, when ye strike, ye're nae tryin' tae slash. Slashin' makes noise, draws attention, might nae even stop someone if they'rewearin' thick clothes. Ye want tae thrust. Drive the blade in and pull it back out quick."
She tried to process the information, but it was difficult to focus with him standing so close, his hand warm on her waist, his voice a low rumble against her ear.
"Show me," she said. "Pretend I'm the enemy."
He released her and stepped back, giving her space. "Alright. Come at me like ye're tryin' tae strike. Dinnae worry about hurtin' me, ye willnae."
That stung more than it should have. "Ye think I'm that weak?"
"I think ye've never held a blade before today, which means yer chances of landin' a real blow are about as good as a fish climbin' a tree." His lips quirked. "But prove me wrong if ye can."
She lunged forward, aiming for his midsection the way he'd described. He sidestepped so smoothly she nearly fell, his hand catching her elbow to steady her.
"Too slow. And ye showed yer intent with yer eyes. I kent exactly where ye were goin' before ye even moved." He positioned her again. "Try once more. This time, dinnae look at where ye're aimin'. Look at me face, at me eyes, and let yer body dae the strikin' without announcement."
She tried again, and again, each attempt met with the same effortless avoidance. Frustration built in her chest.
"This is impossible. Ye're too fast."
"I'm nae too fast. Ye're too obvious." He caught her wrist mid-strike, holding the dirk away from him with insulting ease. "Every time ye're about tae move, ye tense up. Yer shoulders rise, yer breath catches, yer eyes focus too intently on yer target. Ye need tae learn tae hide yer intentions."
He moved behind her again, and she felt his boot tap against her ankle. "Feet wider apart. Ye need a solid base."
His hands came to her hips, adjusting her position with clinical efficiency that somehow felt anything but clinical. "Drop yer center of gravity. Lower. Aye, that's better."
"Ye're enjoyin' this," she accused, acutely aware of how his chest was nearly pressed against her back. "Bossin' me about. Correctin' every little thing."
