As he readies himself, heat floods my cheeks—and lower. He’s bare-chested, and I can’t tear my eyes away. His physique is lean but broad, every inch of him honed by relentless discipline, and Gods, it shows. My gaze traces the ridges of his arms, lingering on each defined muscle that flexes as he moves. His pectorals are carved like stone, hard planes that taper into sharp, powerful shoulders. I shouldn’t be staring like this, but I am.
A light smattering of black hair starts at his chest and runs down in a thin line between lightly etched abdominal muscles, over his flat stomach, finishing just above the belt of his rough-worn black trousers that sit low on his hips, accentuating the long, athletic line of his torso.
He is the epitome of focused power and fluid motion—less about brute strength and more about being dangerously effective.
And this rough, carefree version of the Prince is making that heat drop into my belly. My body’s inadvertent reaction to him makes me shake my head in bewilderment.
He starts sparring with the Thorn Guard while the other looks on. Prince Kiernan plays his smaller stature against the Guard’s massive bulk, making quick movements with his feet and sword, but the Thorn Guard’s strength begins to overpower him. As he takes a nasty slash to the arm, I see the exact moment his Amplifier Gift flares. His muscles ripple, his eyes flash with power, and energy dances on his skin like hundreds of tiny sparks of lightning. When he makes his next move, the raw power staggers the Thorn Guard a step back.
He is beautiful in his violence, and I am in awe.
They spar a little longer, and I’m unable to tear my eyes away from the savage dance being performed. Eventually, they finish, and the Thorn Guards make their way back to the Barracks. I’m just about to scoot back down the hill when I hear him call out.
“Did you get a good look, Alaya?”
Now I feel hot and bothered for an entirely different reason. I pop my head over the rise, embarrassed he’s known I was here all along.
He motions me to come down, so I rise and carefully descend to the Training Grounds’ sandy floor.
When I reach him, Prince Kiernan is smiling and giving me a knowing look.
“How long did you know I was there?” I ask, flustered.
“Since I saw your head bobbing up repeatedly. You’re terrible at hiding.” He laughs.
“What were you doing?”
“My father usually sends me out to work with the Thorn Guards during battles, using my Amplifier Gift. We were just practicing my projecting, which is weak.” He bows his head slightly.
“It was amazing to watch,” I reply shyly, still mortified he caught me staring.
He picks up his white shirt from outside the ring and pulls it on. I admit—though not out loud—that I’m a little disappointed.
“I’ve heard you’re handy with a sword,” he says.
“Oh, not really. My mother was a Warrior and a Thorn Guard trainee, so she showed me a few moves. More the basics of protection than anything else.”
Prince Kiernan bends down to grab a couple of light-looking swords from the ground. He flips one in the air and catches it by the blade, holding it out to me hilt first.
“No, I can’t.” I say. “I’ll probably be so clumsy with this thing I’ll end up stabbing you.”
“It’s a training sword, blunt. I promise you—if you manage to get it anywhere near me, you can hit me with it as hard as you like.” He chuckles, low and amused, as though the very idea of me landing a blow is laughable.
I once again marvel at this carefree, relaxed Prince. I’m so used to seeing him pent up with tension and responsibility that it’s confusing. He definitely seems to have worked out whatever was bothering him after the dancing lesson.
He wiggles it at me again, and I take it. It’s surprisingly light, and I note that the blade is smooth and dull.
“It’ll still hurt, but it’ll leave a bruise more than a cut.” He nods at the sword in my hand. “I assume your mother showed you how to hold it?”
“Of course.” I wrap my fingers around the worn leather grip, keeping my hold relaxed as I sweep the sword a few times to get a feel for it.
When I look up, Prince Kiernan is leaning on his own sword and smirking, though I think I catch a small twitch of surprise.
“Okay, come at me with your best,” he goads.
I step inside the round rope of the ring and start to move around him, trying to assess how to proceed. He moves like a dancer, light on his feet, as he follows my movements. Then I lunge.
I’m adequate with a sword—especially for my limited training with it—but Prince Kiernan is a master. He lets me press my attacks, deflecting my blows with an almost languid ease, his eyes never leaving mine. He isn’t just parrying; he’s reading me, anticipating my next move before I even fully commit.
