I don’t shake him off of me, but I don’t pull him in, either. He steps back, eventually. He drops my arm and gives me space, and the cool air between us is an aching relief.
He hangs one hand from the back of his neck and points to the wardrobe with the other. “There’s a hidden panel at the back of it. Leads to a servant’s passageway. If you take it and stay on the path that goes straight, you’ll find your way to my rooms.”
I don’t know what to say to that. What to think.
Killian shakes his head. “You’re welcome to come. Any time, if you want. But if you need more space, I understand.”
I swallow. This, I have an answer for. “Thank you.”
Because the entirety of this strange new life has felt hostile, pressing in on me from every direction. He’s no different, except in his willingness to back off. Training will never end. I can’t escape Anassa’s bond. The war rages on.
But Killian is willing to give me space. He understands.
He nods. “Even if we never…” His mouth works, testing out the shapes of his words before he says them. “My investigation of your sister’s disappearance is not dependent on anything. Same with me taking care of your mom in your absence. I’m actively going to continue to pursue answers, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have an update.”
I say nothing until he disappears into the wardrobe and leaves me there, staring at the wall and trying to parse out who I am in this place.
I tear myself from the trance and collapse onto the bed. He left the bag of medicine behind. Looking at it upsets me, so I shove it under my bed and roll over to face the wall.
Frustration creeps along the walls of my heart like thorned vines. His sudden presence and even more sudden absence are jarring. I’m left with this cavernous pit in my chest—the space he just occupied, full of sadness and confusion and longing.
I miss him. I can’t lie about that. Right now, havingLeearound to talk through all the shit that’s happened to me would be incredible.
And ultimately, he came here to help me. To tend to my wounds. To warn me about the Bonded.
I know he’s probably right about them. I’m definitely an outsider. I know I’ve been marked as one by many of the other Rawbonds, and I’ve seen firsthand how competitive they all are. Eager to one-up each other. Desperate to snuff me out, like pruning a struggling leaf.
But it doesn’t matter how right Killian is. I’m not ready to forgive him for a lie this big.
And I have other things to worry about, anyway. Like figuring out how to get better at this whole Bonded thing. Getting my throat torn out in training would quickly resolve my confused pining, but being dead would be a bit of an obstacle to reaching Saela.
It’s deeply infuriating to be so fucking awful at this. A naïve part of me thought, at the start of all this, that I might actually make a decent rider if I just swung hard enough and held on tight.
Even when I was green and needed training before the pits, I was a good fighter. I knew how to move. My mind was quick. I caught on fast. It all came instinctively to me. It felt less like training and more like slowly waking up, as if fighting was in my muscles and my blood from birth and I just needed to find it.
Fuck, it would be amazing to feel that way again. To really hit something. I used to shatter the dummies in training, and even with aching muscles and split knuckles, something in me always felt sated.
I sit up suddenly in bed. Maybe that’s a solution to both of my problems.
I’m on my feet and moving before I can second-guess myself. Izabel and Venna are predictably together, settled in the Strategos anteroom and playing a round of the card game Wolves and Siphons. I march right up to their little table and cross my arms over my chest.
“I’m failing, and I need help,” I say.
They both look up, questioning.
I take in a deep breath. “Can you train me? With swords, preferably?”
There’s a scoff to my left. I turn my head to see Nevah draped over an armchair, holding a book in one hand. She doesn’t take her eyes off of it as she says, “It’s about time you asked for help. You really suck.”
“Thanks for the support,” I deadpan. “Want to come train with us?”
Eyes still on her book, she waves her free hand dismissively. “Good luck, though.”
“Ugh,” Izabel groans. She throws her chin into her palm. “Unfortunately, I know just the person to ask.”
Twenty minutes later, Venna and Izabel are standing off at the edge of the training yard and Tomison and I are facing each other, practice swords in hand. His hair is a messy burst of color, and that permanent grin he always sports is predictably on his face.
He agreed so quickly to this, I was sure he’d misheard my request and thought we were marching off to a mildly incestuous four-way.
