“That’s enough, Titus.” Tristen smacks my forearm.
I don’t want to let go. But I do. My flames leap from her hand and land in mine. I force them into hiding again.
Selene examines her palm, rotating it, as if she seeks the maker’s mark on a valuable plate.
I wish I had marked her.
Tristen’s eyes burn into me hotter than any flame my fire could produce.
I know. That was odd. My fire has never investigated others as it did Selene.
I clear my throat and shove my hands behind my back. “The training field is filled with soldiers who report everything back to the king. How can I train there?”
“You think Galen would allow me to train near his men?” she scoffs. “Of course not, because that would show them how big a threat I am. I’m not the demure queen they believe me to be. You can drape me in silk to hide my scars. You can slide rings on my fingers to obscure the calluses from holding a weapon, but every mask can be removed.”
I’d never define you as demure, more like a lethal attraction.
Selene continues, “Galen made me private training fields to the east of Daria Hills.”
“Daria Hills?” My breath hitches. “That’s outside the castle walls.”
“I am well aware of the location.” She pulls at her belt strap, tucking it into place. “We use the king’s passage to leave the castle walls.” She opens the door and enters the hallway.
“A queen wielding a blade shouldn’t remain concealed,” I blurt out as I cross through the doorway.
She turns, eyes scanning me from boot to chin. “Why is that, Titus?”A step closer has my nostrils flaring. Her scent isn’t sweet, but rather spicy, like a chili just ripped off the vine. I know it’s going to burn, but my magic is fire, so I’m not scared.
“I would respect a queen with a sword.”
She tilts her head, eyes roaming over my wide shoulders, down to my leather chest plate. It’s not the one I wear into battle. This one is softer, lighter, and more casual. She shocks me when she reaches up and presses her palm to my chest.
Tristen’s jaw grinds, then he scans the hallway. We’re alone. He glares at me and shakes his head. It’s not out of vexation, but sympathy. My situation just reached treacherous depths.
“Galen doesn’t want my respect, Titus.” She glides her palm to my heart.
Thump!Oh no, we’re slipping into overdrive. My fangs press into my bottom lip, ready to sink into her.
“He wants my submission.”Oomph!She pushes me against the wall before proceeding down the hallway.
Tristen enters my sight, his eyes taking on an uncharacteristic seriousness.
I drop my chin.I know.
His chest expands.I don’t think you do!
I shrug.I agree. I’m royally fucked.
Chapter
Nineteen
Titus
Eating was one of my greatest joys. Stale bread or a hot out-of-the-oven baked sourdough meant I was alive. I appreciated stale bread; it soaked up all the flavors of the stews we were given on the field; it proved you could take something discarded, better labeled as trash, and turn it into something purposeful.
Like an orphan turned into a soldier.
I rub my stomach, suppressing the growls. Selene’s aid has given me reason to eat again. We’ve been training for a few days, skipping lunch, which Selene said was usual for her.
