The way he never underestimates me, never treats me as anything less than capable. He is relentless in training, his expectations high—but not impossible. He pushes me to be stronger, faster, sharper. And when I falter, he doesn’t scold, doesn’t belittle, he encourages. He waits. Watches. Then tells meto try again.
More recently, there are moments between training when I’ve caught him watching me. And my friends keep pointing it out when they catch him looking. When his guard lowers just enough for me to see something beneath all that control, a flicker of something restrained.
I’ve caught myself looking for him more often than I should. When I walk through the outpost with my friends, my eyes skim over the warriors, searching for those familiar broad shoulders, the sharp cut of his jaw, the steady, unshakable presence that has become a constant.
And at meals, I don’t even realize I do it, not until I’m already glancing toward the doors, checking if he’s there. If he’s missing, I wonder where he is. If he’s there, I’m too aware of him, the way his hands curl around a mug, the way his fingers tap idly against the table, the way his eyes sharpen when someone speaks.
He doesn’t fill space the way some warriors do, loud, boastful, commanding attention. But he owns every room he steps into. And people feel it.
I feel it.
Some nights, after training, I replay our sparring sessions in my head. At first, it was a way to improve—analyzing my mistakes, figuring out how to be faster, sharper.
But now?
I remember the way his hands linger when he corrects my stance. The press of his palm on my hip, adjusting my balance. The heat of his body so close to mine, the steadiness of his grip, how completely unfazed he is by the contact.
And how completelynotunfazed I am.
I don’t know when it started.
Just one moment, one look, one day at a time—until I was in too deep.
Because watching him now—raw power, lethal grace, thatcontrolled fury in every movement—I know one thing: I’m far too aware of him.
And worse . . . I think he knows.
Garrick drives forward, forcing Thane to parry. Their blades clash, muscles flexing, the force behind their sparring nothing like the training I’ve just had with Jarek.
A figure steps up beside me. Lyra’s voice purrs in my ear. “So . . . which one are we drooling at?”
I nearly choke. “I’m not—”
Lyra snorts, arms crossed, eyes locked onto the exact same scene I had just been ogling.
“Oh, please. I saw the way you were staring.” She jerks her chin toward Thane, then lets out a low appreciative whistle. “Though honestly, take your pick. Garrick’s built like he was sculpted by the gods. Seriously, what is it with the men here? And the women! Every time one of them takes off a shirt, I start questioning my priorities.”
Three more join us, drawn in by the spectacle.
Taila steps up beside me, sweat gleaming on her brown skin. “By the gods. Thane and Garrick put every statue in the capital to shame.”
Nessa joins us, tall and imposing, fair skin glowing in the sunlight, striking blue eyes glinting with amusement. Her bunk is a few rows over from ours in the barracks. She crosses her arms, lips curving.
“Who needs art when this exists?” she says, pushing a few strands of blonde hair off her forehead.
Darius lets out a slow, appreciative sigh, arms crossed as he watches them spar. “Steel, sweat, and not a shirt in sight,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Truly, we are witnessing a masterpiece.” He glances around. “And Fenric’s missing it. Tragic.”
Lyra let out a short laugh, nudging me. “You see? It’s not justus.”
Heat flares up my neck, burning all the way to my ears. I shrug my shoulders, feigning indifference. “I was just—observing technique.”
Darius and Nessa laugh; Lyra gives me a look that could strip paint.
“Mm-hmm. Observing technique. That’s why you were practically eye-fondling his abs. Look, I get it,” she interrupts, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Big. Broody. Built like a war god.”
I stop resisting because she’s so right. I don’t look away from the fight. “Both. We’re drooling at both.”
Lyra hums in agreement, crossing her arms. “Fair.” She tilts her head, considering. “Thane’s got that whole will-definitely-break-you-in-half-if-you-ask-nicely thing going on.”
