You are not happy.
Yeah, no kidding.
The air has turned tense and prickly, and it doesn’t help that Sephran is still standing there, watching this entire interaction. I have no doubt he can read every emotion on my face— and sadly, he can probably do it better than Tycho can.
When Tycho glances between us again, his gaze settles on Sephran for a moment longer than necessary. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“There’s no interruption,” Sephran says. “Jax was just inviting me to go shooting.” He pauses. “My lord.”
Somehow he makes it sound like a totally different invitation. Something private. Somethingintimate.
He also saysmy lordas if he really wants to sayyou asshole.
It’s my turn to stare daggers athim. Sephran’s eyebrows go up, just a hair, his expression becoming a little daring. Any contrition is gone from his face.
Tycho’s voice turns tightly formal— the way it always does when he’s confronted by the soldiers. “You have duties,” he says to me. “I’llfind you later.” He looks back at Sephran. “I believe you’re due at the barracks. Captain Malin is seeking you.”
Before either of us can respond, he’s given me a nod, and he turns away.
Oh, this is awful.
I stride past Sephran, my step solid and sure after weeks of practice with the false foot. “Tycho,” I say, catching his arm.
It’s the dead heat of summer, so he’s only got a light tunic under the black armor that befits his role. It leaves the bend of his elbow bare above the knife- lined bracers strapped to his forearms, and that’s where my hand falls. The instant my fingertips find the warm curve of muscle, a spark rolls through me, and I can tell it does the same to him. He goes tense at once, so I’m surprised when he doesn’t jerk away, and instead he turns to look at me.
For a moment, I see torment reflected in his eyes— the same exact torment I’m feeling. But he blinks and it’s gone. His eyes are so cool that I almost regret touching him at all.
“Jax?” he says.
“We go shooting.”
“I heard,” he says evenly. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”
Clouds above.I recognizethisTycho— the man who’d rather pick a fight than confront a difficult emotion.
When I don’t answer, he shifts to pull away.
Months ago, I would’ve let him go. He was the skilled nobleman, and I was the poor blacksmith. I never had a right to ask for anything.
But so much has changed since he first found me in Briarlock. I don’t know if our time apart has changed him, but coming here has definitely changedme.
So instead of letting go, I tighten my grip and hold fast.
Belligerence flares in his expression, like he might jerk free or tussle.That’s the fight he’s looking for, and anyone else would probably give it to him.
But I don’t. Instead, I stroke my thumb across the warm curve of his bicep.
He stops breathing for a second, and I feel the response in his body when he exhales. He simply . . . pauses. Softens.Waits.
So I do it again, brushing my thumb along the slope of his skin. “Come with us,” I say quietly.
The bracing tension has slipped out of his frame, and for an instant, I think he might yield. But then he frowns and glances past me. His eyes go a little cool again, and when he speaks, it’s in Syssalah. “I don’t think I’m invited, Jax.”
I don’t let go of his arm. I can almost feel his pulse, and my heart seems to seek the same rhythm.
“I’minviting you,” I say. “Please?”
He’s frozen in place, and torment flickers in his gaze again— followed by regret. “I can’t,” he says. “I have orders. Prince Rhen is sending me to Gaulter for a few days, and I need to prepare. We still need to be wary of Truthbringers, and there’s a concern that scravers won’t stay hidden for long.”
