“Well, then I hope we get a chance to meet her next time we come for a visit.” Cassian winked at Benedict.
They talked a little longer, finished the last of the port, and then Cassian and Sebastian finally bade their friend farewell.
The moment the door shut behind them, silence swelled like a tide. Their presence had distracted him for a few hours, but now he was left alone again—alone with the pounding in his skull, the heat in his veins, and the unshakable memory of her.
Which was how he ended up in his uncle’s fencing chamber. The room smelled of oiled leather and cold steel, unchanged from his boyhood. Benedict rolled up his sleeves, drew a sword from the rack, and began to move. Steel hissed through the air, every strike precise, economical, drilled into him since the age of seven.
His uncle’s voice seemed to linger in the chamber still. ‘A Straton does not falter. Again. Again. Again, until you can no longer lift the blade.’
How many afternoons had he spent in here, a boy too small for the weight of the sword, his palms blistering until they bled, only to be shunned for months as soon as one of his uncle’s wives was with child? Duty had been forged into his bones here, alongside bruises and exhaustion. His uncle had believed weakness was a disease to be stamped out by discipline, and Benedict had believed him.
Now, every thrust and parry was meant to drive Anastasia from his head. The memory of her mouth. Her defiance. The chaos she brought wherever she stepped. He slashed harder, faster, until sweat slicked his brow and his muscles burned.
And then the door flew open, and she walked in.
She swept into the chamber as though she owned the air itself—skirts swishing, chin high—and only when she spotted him did she freeze mid-step. The color rose up her throat and into her cheeks like a tide.
“Oh,” she breathed, color rising to her cheeks. “I… I did not realize anyone would be here.”
Benedict lowered the sword slowly, his pulse still thundering, his breath rough from exertion—and something else entirely. His shirt clung damp to his back; his hair was disheveled. He must have looked nothing like the cool master of the house he pretended to be.
“Miss Dawson,” he said evenly, though his voice came out lower than he had intended. “What are you doing here?”
“I… I beg your pardon,” she blurted and blushed, taking a quick step back. “I was looking for… well, it does not matter. I will leave you to it.”
She turned, ready to vanish like a startled cat, and for a heartbeat, he almost let her. It would be easier. But then, his own voice betrayed him.
“Stay.”
The word flew from his lips before he could even do anything to stop it. He had not planned on saying that, or even fencing at this time of the evening, but since Anastasia had come into his life,nothing had gone according to plan.
Her back stiffened. Slowly, she turned her head toward him, her eyes wary but bright. She did not move closer, but she did not flee.
“No, I… it is best that I not intrude,” she said, folding her hands before her like a shield. Her voice was clipped, her chin lifted; he could almost see her steeling herself.
“You are not intruding,” Benedict said. He set the sword down, though he did not step away from it. “It is only practice.”
She glanced at the racks of swords. “You are fencing alone?” she asked after a pause, her voice thinner than usual. “That seems a bit silly.”
The edge of Benedict’s lips twitched into a small smile, but he turned around quickly before she assumed he found amusement in what she said, even if he did.
“There is nobody to spar with.”
She hesitated. Just a breath. And then, as if the words were dragged from her against her will, she said, “You could spar with me.”
Benedict gave a low chuckle, the sound rolling through the chamber. “With you?” His gaze slid to her deliberately, letting the weight of it linger.
It should have cowed her. Instead, she answered at once, steady as steel. “Yes, with me. Or is Mr. Straton afraid he might actually lose to a woman?”
Of course, she knew how to get his attention, and that was by dangling a good challenge in front of his face. But he knew betterthan to fall for that right now.
“Miss Dawson,” he drawled, every syllable thick with warning. “As tempting as that sounds, I would not spar with a lady. What sort of gentleman would I be?”
Her chin tilted higher, her eyes flashing. “A gentleman who is terrified of losing to one.”
He looked at her then—properlylooked—his eyes running over her with a measured deliberation that made his breeches tighten uncomfortably. The sight of her standing there, chin lifted, daring him, was infuriating. Maddening. Irresistible.
“You think highly of yourself,” he said at last, his voice cool, though he felt anything but.
