Pressure builds at my arm as his grip shifts, the warmth of his touch sends a jolt up my spine, but I bite down on my cheeks, steadying myself.
Plan—I need a plan.
I reach down deep, my Threads flicker, magic is there, but not just weak—it’s chaotic, even more unpredictable than usual. So instead my right hand drops to the blade at my hip.
Fuck.Not there.
Why the hell hadn’t I stashed one at my waist? Or in my sleeve? Somewhere, anywhere, but at the bottom of my pack.Right, because I didn’t want to look like a threat when I went to sweet-talk Brian.
Brilliant move, Lyra.
Okay, new plan. My gaze flicks, scanning. Anything.
Talen shifts—his free arm flexes with quiet ease, and my eyes drop following the movement. His sleeve has ridden up just enough to reveal a cut of lean muscle and the glint of a blade, resting easy in his free hand.
I could take it.
He’s stronger, sure—more power, more magic, more everything. But I’m fast. Grew up with hands built for stealing. If I’m quick, one clean grab and it’s mine. But if he catches me? That’s it. Pinned, disarmed and probably bleeding.
But the only other option is that I wait… stall. Try to coax my Threads into some type of control. Hope he stays curious long enough for me to get a shot. But after Ryven? It could just as easily blow a hole through both of us.
Fuck, either way, I lose. But at least the blade’s real. Tangible. Something I can hold.
Talen follows my gaze down, smile sharpening.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” His voice curls with dark amusement.
I lock my jaw. No choice.
Fuck it.
In one quick clean motion, I go for the blade, fast and reckless, taking it straight from his hand and bringing it up to his throat.
It feels cold and heavy in mine, the whole thing rough with age, maybe stone, definitely not metal.
Trembling slightly, I hover it at the edge of his bare neck, just where his uniform hangs open—skin smooth and stretched taut over muscle.
For a second, I feel powerful, in control, at the thought that I have him. But I can’t stop noticing how steady he is, how maddeningly calm his pulse beats against me.
He didn't flinch... Didn’t even try to stop me.
God, heletme take it.
My gaze snaps back to his face. The smirk has slipped, just slightly, and something flickers behind his eyes as they drop to the blade, then to my hand, like he’s waiting for something to happen.
Nothing does.
His head tilts—not a threat, more like a recalibration—and when his gaze lifts again, it’s more focused, calculating. Then, quietly, almost to himself: “...Interesting.”
“I’ve got a blade to your throat, andthat’syour response? Interesting?”
“So?” He leans in until the blade dimples against his skin, close enough that his breath brushes my cheek, laced with smoke and something bittersweet.A hard rush slams through me, his body against mine setting off something I don’t dare name. Then, calm and certain: “We both know this blade’s too blunt to do a damn thing.”
I make the mistake of looking down to check.
Stupid.
That’s all it takes.
