Pulverized grass, a light humidity, and the faintest hint of rain scent the field. A light sweat beads on my brow. Not from the exercise. No, proximity to Selene is the cause.
Driving the heel of my boot into the soil, I stand firm. Selene glares up at me; the angle of her eyes looks sharper. I peer at her as I do a flame, admiring its shades and the levels of heat.
With a hiss, Selene slides her blade down mine. “You’re holding back.” Metal screeches like a cat plunged into icy water. That sound transports me back to the battlefield. The ground is so slick that your heels stick. You look down, thinking it’s mud.
How can that be? It didn’t rain.
Oh. Puddles of blood—so many, the earth can not drink them down fast enough—trap the soles of your boots.
Your mind stops fighting. You look around. Trauma forces you to inhale. The smell repulses you more than the swamp of blood and guts did. Sweat, urine, and shit. So much shit.
When you're handed a sword as a kid and told to fight, no one tells you about the shit, or how the body purges everything from it when it dies. They speak only of glory.
I breathe again. Selene’s faint scent works like an elixir, calming my mind.
“You’re my queen,” I answer. I can never fight her as I would another. “You don’t toss a diamond into the dirt and trample it.”
“A diamond was born in the dirt, under pressure. That is how it’s made—by being pressed, nudged, forced to accept more and more weight. A diamond is more comfortable in difficult times than joyful moments when it’s forced to be nothing but a sparkling object in a crown. So feel free to toss it in the dirt, stomp on it again, Titus; pressure will not chip or mar it, it will only make it grow stronger.” She swings her blade; the movement is as magnificent as a rainbow spotted in the thunderous sky. The sunlight bounces off the steel, blinding me.
I twist, then lunge forward, close enough for her to sense the warmth of my body, before I parry her next strike. “Not anymore,” I murmur.
You are no longer just my queen. You’re something else.
Her next three hits are hard, sending tremors up her arm. Her muscles are fatiguing. She isn’t pacing herself. “The lack of a dick between my legs does not mean I can’t be the one tossing you down!” she shouts in frustration.
My spontaneous laughter startles both of us. She attacks. I lean into my next block, so my lips hover over her ear. “Careful, some men would consider that an open invitation to check.”
The blush on her face makes me hard. She swings, but it’s slow. I catch the blade in my hand and stare into her eyes. “Here’s your chance,” I taunt her.
Her eyes move from her blade to my palm. Her breath hitches as the air crackles. My fingers close on the blade and draw her near.
“Titus!” she pants. My gaze drops to her full lips. Moving my hand off her blade, I grab her wrist.
Air rushes between us, wedging us apart as she steps back. My mouth dries as my gulp sticks in my throat.
Rejected. Rightfully so.
What was I thinking?
Shit!“Selene?—”
She replies with another attack. This time, I let her land a few blows on my armor.
“This isn’t the palace,” she pushes back, chin low, eyes sharp. “Fight me as you do on the battlefield.”
I’d have your back on the ground in less than sixty seconds. I’d have you right where the creature inside of me wants you, at my mercy. Defenseless so that I can carry you away.“As you wish.” I nod.
She points her toe with grace as she takes her next plotted step. Her elegance has no place in battle. When you’re inches from the next brawling duo, you have no room for trained luxuries, like perfect footing.
We start circling each other. I like this type of dancing. Blade to blade. Heart to heart. Life and death. All or nothing.
Her foot stumbles. It’s a trick.
She’s baiting me. I don’t bite.
The anger on her face is as hot as the sun above. “Treat me as your equal,” she demands as she lunges again.
I’ll never be your equal. I’m not worthy.
