Amund doesn’t seem to notice. “She’s my best friend.”
“Oh.” For some reason, I feel relieved.
“Anyway, I learned to fight young,” Amund continues. “As soon as I was old enough to hold a weapon.”
It’s ironic that someone who hates violence was raised with it. Weboth were. Unlike me, though, Amund seems comfortable with it. At ease. Then again, I was exposed to that violence only when I was young. For Amund, it never stopped.
“Do you know where berserkir are weakest?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
Nothing about the wolf that attacked me seemed weak.
“It’s easiest if I show you.” Amund takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us. “May I?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, having no idea what he’s asking.
When he reaches for me, I instinctively step back.
“I won’t harm you.” His voice softens. “I just want to show you where to strike.”
“Right. Okay.”
Amund slowly runs his hand down my stomach, before pausing above my hips. His touch is barely there, just skimming over my shirt, but it sends sparks shooting through me. “Here,” he says. “This is the most vulnerable spot. You want to aim right here. Lower than you would on a human, since their bodies are longer, and their organs are back farther than you might expect.”
My breath catches. “Oh.”
His body is close to mine, so close I can breathe in the rich, musky aroma of his leathers. It has the slightest trace of sweetness. My heart is pounding way too hard. Harder than any time I’ve been around Nils. But Amund is a hunter. He’s thelastperson I should be attracted to.
“Why there?” I ask, trying to stay focused.
Amund is everything I should fear.
He knows all the places I’m most vulnerable.
“It’s easiest to reach when you’re being attacked,” Amund says, sobering me. “Berserkir are exceptionally strong, including their hides. Most weapons can’t wound them. But their stomachs are still unprotected, like any animal.”
The clinical way he discusses it sends a shiver through me. “I see.”
Amund withdraws, and I feel colder for it.
I peer up at him, searching his face. No wonder he’s so exhausted. I can’t imagine doing this every day after attending classes and everything else. An image flashes of him thrusting the spear, sweat dripping down his forehead, but I quickly push it away.
“You have to be careful,” he says, a little unsteady himself.
Who should I be more careful of: the killer—or Amund?
I take a step back. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”
He nods. “It’s a start, anyway.”
“I’ll return to classes and see what I can find out about Isaac.”
“Try to get a better look at his injuries. We need to confirm it was the same ones I inflicted. The cut I gave should be along his right forearm. Here,” Amund adds, showing me.
“I should be able to see in Transformation, but I don’t have that until Tuesday.”
“After class, you can update me on your findings over dinner.”
