The axe spins clean and fast through the air and lands dead center with a solid, satisfying thunk.
The room erupts.
My hand flies to my chest. “Oh my God.”
Weston looks faintly annoyed by the applause, which only makes it hotter.
“Show-off,” I murmur when he comes back to me.
“Didn’t show off.”
“You threw a murder weapon into a bullseye while looking likethat.I need you to be serious.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “I am.”
My knees go soft.
Before I can combust, an older woman presses a smaller throwing axe into my hand. “Your turn, honey.”
I stare down at it. “I’m sorry, my turn for what exactly? Public humiliation?”
Weston takes the axe from me before I can lose a toe. “Come here.”
He leads me to the line, then steps behind me.
Every functioning thought in my brain leaves the building.
His body is a wall of heat at my back. One hand closes over mine on the handle. The other settles at my hip, turning me a fraction.
“Feet here,” he says, low near my ear. “Shoulders square.”
I swallow hard.
“Weston.”
“Yeah?”
“You are being very calm for a man actively ruining my life.”
A rough breath warms the side of my neck. It might be a laugh.
“Hold it tighter,” he murmurs. “Now bring it back.”
I do, or try to, though my coordination has abandoned me completely.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let it go when it feels natural.”
“With you pressed against my back, nothing feels natural.”
This time he definitely laughs, low and brief and dangerous.
Then his fingers tighten over mine for one guiding second, and we throw.
The axe lands near the outer ring with a clumsy thunk.
The crowd cheers like I’ve slain something enormous.
I spin toward him, grinning. “Did you see that?”
