And he’s looking at me like nothing’s changed. Like I didn’t feel the ache of every second he was gone.
“You and me,” he says.
Heat coils low in my stomach.
The bond pulses—soft, steady, impossible to ignore. I press my fingers to my sternum, like I can quiet the thrumming.
We still haven’t talked. Not about the bond. Not about the space between us. Not about the way he left after I finally stopped running.
We’re not talking now either. So I make it about sparring.
I arch a brow, keeping my stance loose. Unaffected.
“Weapons?”
“None.”
“Magics?”
“Nope.”
“You just missed me?” I ask, voice light, teasing.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“Just you and me, Amara,” he says.
Something in my chest tightens. It’s not fear of the sparringmatch we are about to have. It’s fear of what’s still unsaid and what this moment is really about.
I narrow my eyes, trying to focus—but then I see the way his duster shifts around his legs when he moves. The memory of his body pressing into mine—strong, steady, urgent—his hands gripping my waist, his breath warm against my skin, the way he felt against me in his bed.
A few weeks ago. A lifetime ago.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go.
Thane reaches up, undoing the clasps of his duster. The leather shifts fluidly as he slides it from his shoulders, worn and supple from use and travel. And underneath—his warrior leathers cling like a second skin. Every sharp angle. Every inch of muscle honed for war.
I look. I wish I didn’t. But I do.
Around us, the training grounds pause. Not fully, but just enough. I can feel their eyes on us.
Lyra stills. Fenric forgets to dodge a hit.
Because this is different. Thane isn’t looking at me like an opponent. He’s looking at me like he knows how I fall apart. And exactly where to press.
He doesn’t come at me right away. He closes the distance one step at a time, gaze locked like he’s measuring not just my stance, but how close I am to breaking. When he finally moves—it’s not an opening strike. It’s a demand.
I twist, counter, drive toward his ribs—he catches my wrist. Spins me. My boot digs in just before he has the advantage.
We move like flame and wind—always crashing, never settling. Too close. Too fast.
His breath brushes my cheek. The bond hums at the base of my spine. Muscle against muscle. Heat against heat. Every move is a memory that has nothing to do with this sparring match.
The last time we touched.
The last time we kissed.
The last time I stopped pretending.
