“The last fight between a skilled Aetherian and Gyorian did not end well.”
Her eyes flashed. “Seryn?—”
“Was not skilled. I don’t refer to that.”
“Yet you murdered him anyway.”
Had she known him? The spy was young, a haranya, just over a century old, but had been handsome and clearly clever enough to have gone undetected.
Thinking of them together did nothing to calm my mood. Not that it should matter.
But it did.
I took a step toward her.
“Would you care to test your theory? How easy Gyorians can be subdued?”
She didn’t step back.
Of course she didn’t.
Instead, Lyra tilted her chin even higher, fingers twitching at her side as a breeze stirred in the closed chamber. “You’d lose,” she said, voice low.
“I don’t lose,” I replied, closing the space between us.
The air pressure shifted, subtle but undeniable. A flirt of wind brushed past my cheek like a whispered dare. Then came the sudden snap of force. I caught the invisible strike before it landed, my own magic flaring in response. Stone hummed beneath our feet.
Her eyes widened, just slightly. I could understand why. Few could detect and prevent such a strike.
She flicked her wrist, and the wind coiled around my arm like a rope. Meanwhile, Lyra’s expression barely changed. I reached through the air rope and gripped her wrist before she could cast again, twisting her gently toward the wall. She didn’t resist. Not at first.
But then a burst of air slammed into my chest and sent me a step back. She spun away, Lyra’s hair whipping around her in an arc.
I caught her by the waist before she got too far.
We were both breathless. Flushed.
Close.
“Still think you’d win?” I asked, my voice rougher than I’d intended.
Her smile was slow. Dangerous. “You’re the one panting.”
Once. Just once, I wanted to see her lose control.
“Not from an effort exerted by using magic, I can assure you.”
“Release my wrist.”
I did, reluctantly. Wishing instead to use it as leverage to see what might happen if this dangerous dance continued.
“Explain the conversation between you and my father,” I said, stepping back. “Why do you want me to take the Stone, rightfully his, from my father?”
Her lips were made to be kissed.
It was a damned inconvenient time to have such a thought, but there was no way to unsee a vision of me pressing her against the wall, wrists pinned above her head, and capturing those lips in mine.
I regained focus.
