This was not living for a purpose. It was living for a feeling. And it was shattering and equally enthralling.
“Neirin.” Evera stroked her thumb across the stubble of a beard growing in.
“I desire you,” I said without thought. Though as soon as the words escaped me, I knew they were ill-voiced.
To my surprise, Evera laughed. “That is very forward of you.”
“That is what Sindri said as well.” I shook my head, recalling the barkeep’s words the night of the festival. Shifting my tone back to a more serious one so she understood that my longing for her went beyond what her body could give, I placed my hand atop hers. “This, though, is a different form of longing.”
Releasing a breath, Evera smiled. “It is.”
“Do you have more questions to ask of me?” Keeping her hand in mine, I lowered it to my chest, to where my heart beat in rhythm to hers.
She sighed. “Yes, for each question you answer, I have three more. But that is enough heavy conversation for one night. It is, admittedly, exhausting.”
“It is,” I agreed, “but I believe I have earned one question for you.”
“Have you, now?”
“I’ve been very forthcoming, Cordelia,” I teased.
Shoving at my chest, Evera grinned. “Very well, Hadrian, a single question.”
I considered this for a moment, enjoying the warmth of her smile and the lighter tone our conversation had taken on. It was true what she said. Though there would be many questions for us both as we learned from each other and uncovered our pasts and tribulations, there was a heaviness to such talks. One that needed to be balanced.
Evera shifted her weight, and the hilt of her blade, strapped at her inner thigh, pressed to my leg.
“Your dagger,” I said decisively. “Where did you get it?”
“I don’t remember,” she replied with an easy comfort. “I’ve always had it.”
“Can I see it?”
A wicked grin crossed her face, reaching her eyes. She pressed against my chest, encouraging me to fall back. I obliged and leaned back, supporting myself with my forearms. Raising to her knees, Evera bunched her skirts and withdrew the blade.
With a glint of a challenge in her eyes, she held the dagger out to me.
I supported my weight with one arm and took it from her. My muscles bunched with the effort, and I caught Evera’s brief glance across my body before she returned her gaze to the blade. A slight reddening flushed her cheeks.
Stifling my amusement and my satisfaction at the effects I had on her, I held the pointed blade up to the dying light of the setting sun.
It was old, but the craftsmanship was of decent quality. Rough leather wrapped its hilt, and accents of embossed metal decorated its pommel and cross guard. The edges, however, were markedly dull.
“When is the last time you sharpened it?” I asked.
“Sharpened it?”
I scoffed and ran my finger across one of the blade’s edges. “I will sharpen it for you. You should keep it on your hip, though. Where you have it now is impractical.” I considered for a moment, then added, “Though, unless it was your intention to cut me the night of the festival, I suspect you need lessons on wielding it properly as well?”
One of her brows rose as I handed the weapon back, handle first. She took it and set it beside us on the grass.
The guard in me cringed at the action. “A blade should always be sheathed when not in use,” I pointed out.
Huffing, Evera ignored my lecture. “I could not carry it on my hip.”
“Yes,” I told her with stern seriousness, dissatisfied by the bitterness in her tone. “You can, and you should.” To regain the lightness, I offered a crooked smile, knowing as I did that it would reveal my dimple; I knew she favored it. “Fuck what others think of it.”
“Fuck what others think of it?” she repeated on a laugh.
