My steps falter, and as if sensing it, the taller fencer hesitates too—just for a second. It’s all the opening his opponent needs. Her blade slips past his guard, tapping his chest.
“Point!” she crows, breathless.
They both lift their helmets. Atticus’s blonde hair is stuck to his forehead, his expression unreadable—except for the quick way his eyes flick to me before he looks straight past, dismissing me like I’m nothing but background.
The girl grins at him, flushed from exertion. “That’s the first time I’ve been able to land one on you all day. What happened?” She giggles, the sound too light, too interested.
He smirks, lowering his blade.
“Maybe I let you win this round. Thought it might earn me a kiss.” He says a little louder than necessary.
Her laugh is softer this time, promising.
I don’t stick around to hear her answer. Rage prickles hot in my stomach, but I shove the sting down deep, bury it under the thousand other things I don’t have the luxury of feeling.
I duck past the edge of the match, grateful to escape the tail end of his flirting before it digs under my skin any further.
The fencing sparks fade behind me, and I force my attention forward. And there he is—Ryker, striding across the casting grounds like he owns the surrounding air.
If I had thought I was surprised before when I saw him carrying a perfectly packed picnic basket, nothing could have prepared me for what he now has in his hands.
“Fishing poles?” I squint at him, tone sharp with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“Not kidding,” he says, arching a brow. “What, Princess, too good for fishing?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No, but I never pegged the Councilor’s son—the richest man on the continent—to be a fisherman.”
He chuckles, that easy, infuriating grin spreading across his face. “Exactly. I know what you think of me. And I didn’t get the chance to show off my manly outdoor skills last time when you took over my picnic basket. Thought a little friendly fishing competition might show I’m more than a wallet with a pretty face.”
I smile, rolling my eyes playfully. “Well, I hate to let you down, but I’ve never been fishing. Large bodies of water aren’t exactly common in the desert.”
His green eyes light up with genuine excitement. “This is great. Now not only do I get to show off my mad fishing skills, I get to teach you to fish.”
Before I can even react, he grabs my hand, strong but careful, and starts leading me down the same path as last time. My chest does that stupid little flip it’s been doing when he’s close, and I scold myself for it—he’s dangerous in ways I can’t quite name yet—and it’s way too thrilling.
We reach the pond, and he presses a fishing pole into my hands. It feels heavier than I expected, awkward in my grip.
I watch him fling his line out into the water next to me like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I’m already bracing myself to look like an idiot when Ryker fixes his pole upright to hold between some rocks and steps closer.
“First you need to cast your line into the water,” he says, voice low, easy. “Move your hands back and relax your grip.”
Before I can ask how, he’s behind me, sliding into my space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My breath catches. His handscover mine briefly, then trail down to my wrists, nudging them to where they need to be.
“You’re strangling it,” he teases, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.
Heat creeps up my neck, and I force a laugh. “Sorry, Wrath instincts. We strangle first, ask questions later.”
He chuckles, and then his palms find my hips—steady, sure—gently adjusting my stance. “Feet apart. Good. Now…” He leans closer, and I swear my knees almost buckle. “Pull the top of your rod up and back. Yeah, just like that.”
The fishing rod feels like nothing now, background noise compared to the sharp awareness zipping through my skin. His chest is warm against my back; his presence is overwhelming. I can’t decide is dangerous or thrilling.
“Now, we cast the line,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating through me. I relax my muscles and let him lead me through the motions.
As the bait hits the water and ripples the surface, I risk a glance at his reflection in the water—his expression caught somewhere between mischief and focus, like he’s enjoying every second of this far too much. And maybe, traitorously, I am too.
His breath brushes my ear as he whispers, “Keep your wrists loose. Watch the tension… feel the line.” His lips graze the edge of my ear, and I have to bite back a laugh, my face warming despite my best effort to stay cool.
“Like this?” I murmur.
