The sounds lash at my ears. The cacophony of shouts, slurring jeers, insidious laughter, and the errant thuds of weapons finding marks—it all blurs together, threatening to engulf me completely.
Iosif guides me as far away from the thick of it as possible. He’s purposeful, steering me to a private corner, away from the main throwing stations where the crowds are mostly hanging.
He summons my attention, selecting a sword from the selection on the wall. “Do you remember what I taught you?” he asks, the question edged with challenge.
I lift my chin in answer. Instead of taking the one he holds out, I step up to the array and pluck a sword for myself. Holding its heavy weight in my hand, its power pours down my arm and floods me.
Maybe it’s all in my head. That doesn’t stop it from helping.
My shoulders square, and I whip around in a jousting position. I’m instantly glad I didn’t opt for the dress it had been my impulse to reach for. In a pair of trousers and a champagne-colored blouse that draws Iosif’s eyes to my collarbones, I don’t feel exposed. If anything, I am spry, free-flowing.
“One way to find out.”
Playfully, his sword clangs against mine. The vibration thrums up my arm, snaking its way to my heartbeat.
His smirk is feral. “Oh yeah?”
I suck in a sharp inhale and strike his sword back.
We fall into a rhythmic back-and-forth, only switching up weapons when my arm begins to ache from the weight of the sword. Knives are lighter. When I confront the targets, they are buoyant in my grasp.
It’s a target itself that makes me stall. The sight of it, of those gleaming red rings, has a phantom ache needling in my arm. Even the stitches have long healed over. And yet…
“Janella.”
Iosif pulls me out of the depths of my memories.
It jars me, how close he is. His chest is a warm, hard wall against my back. His head dips, his lips at my ear—“I’ve got you. Let it go.”
The deep-set brag of his voice is hypnotic. Of its own volition, my hand sends the knife flying. It buries an inch deep into the second outermost ring of the target,
Iosif hums, considering. “Not too shabby. You can do better, though.”
Unsurprising. He’s always daring me to rise to the challenge. It’s taken me this long to understand what it really is—him, having faith in me.
“Trust your strength,” he advises against the shell of my ear. “Don’t tense up at the end. That’s what’s fucking you over.”
I shudder at the way his breath tickles me. He retrieves every blade I throw, bringing them back for me to try again andagain. Somehow, throw after throw, the aching knot of anxiety in my chest unspools.
When I land my fourth throw dead center, Iosif grins wider than I do.
“You’re a fucking natural!” he exclaims, thrilled.
I can’t help giggling. “Oh, that’s a dream come true. A natural at violence? I’ve always wanted to be that.”
The look on his face is knowing. I fight another shiver.
“Think I could take you in a fight?” I ask him, half-teasing.
His brows crawl up his forehead, the corners of his lips twitching with amusement. “I think I’d enjoy watching you try,kukolka.”
There it is again.Little doll.
Heat gathers at my nape over the endearment. The Russian always sounds lyrical from his mouth—wicked, somehow. I’m anything but unaffected. How could I be, when he’s looking at this?
I’m surprised my hands hold steady when I take back the knife in his hand and take aim once more.
My heart goes haywire in my chest at the brush of our fingertips.
