“Can we help you, Vane?” the soldier asked, his eyes darting to his companions.
Vane let out a low laugh, tilting his head at the man. “What makes you think you can speak to me like that? And more importantly, why do you think you can speak aboutherin the way you just did?”
The man paled. “I’m sorry about the lack of formality, sir, but the girl… Well, she’s Misean, isn’t she?”
Vane stepped forward, his smile humorless. Her heart beat rapidly in her throat, and she almost told him to stop, but a twisted part of her wanted to see exactly what he would do.
“She is worth an innumerable number of you spineless bastards,” Vane snarled. “And if you eventhinkof fucking touching her, I will make sure it’s the last thought you have. Understand?”
The man shared a look with his companions but nodded, muttering, “Yes, sir.”
Vane turned, meeting her eyes, but as he did, one of the men muttered, “Fucking gods,” and Vane whirled.
His fist made contact with one of their noses, and Soren flinched as she heard the resoundingcrack. Someone shouted, and there was a flash of silver. Innate instincts had her magic rising to protect Vane, but before she could strike at any of the men, he had already snatched the dagger away, the blade now pressed to its owner’s throat.
“Trying to kill your superior?” Vane murmured. “And threatening one of the king’s most valuable riders? I might just have to report you to Commander Eton.”
“Please,” the man squeaked, a droplet of blood trailing down his neck.
Soren took a single step forward. “Vane.” Her voice sounded wrong, shallow and breathless. “We should continue training.”
His jaw tightened. “Perhaps.” He released the man and spat, “Fortunately for you, I have better things to do at the moment than dole out punishments. You’d better hope I forget about this before I meet with the commander again.”
And with that, he stalked away. She hurried after him, not wanting to hear what the men had to say next.
He didn’t speak to her, didn’t look at her until they were standing in another small field on the other side of camp. There were several targets riddled with divots and holes, a few soldiers sparring with each other just beyond.
Vane gathered a handful of throwing daggers and wordlessly handed one to her. She glanced sidelong at him. “Vane.”
“Throw.”
“Are we not going to talk about?—”
“Throw the dagger, Soren.”
She eyed the small blade in her hand. “I don’t know how.”
His gloved left hand curled into a fist at his side, the other daggers grasped in his right. She caught his thumb sliding over his pointer finger, just as it had the other night in the tent.
“Try,” he said gruffly.
She took a deep breath and reared her hand back, the handle of the blade between her digits. Her eyes were on the target, but she heard Vane sigh and drop the other daggers. She stiffened as his hand pressed to her bicep, and he murmured, “Lower your arm a bit. You’re too tense.”
She obeyed, not trusting herself to speak. He moved to her hand next, adjusting her fingers on the handle.
“Keep your grip nice and loose as you release it.”
“Can I throw it now?”
She turned her head to find his lips tilted up in as much of a smile as he seemed capable of. “Go ahead.”
She cocked her hand back a bit more and let the blade loose. It flew through the air, caught a breeze, and hit the side of the target before ricocheting off onto the grass. She frowned and found Vane wearing a similar expression, his eyes far away.
“Apologies,” she muttered. “For not meeting your expectations. I did tell you I’ve never done this before.”
He cleared his throat. “I know. Let me show you.”
Leaning down, he plucked one of the other daggers out of the yellowing grass. Fluidly, he brought his arm back and released it. It spun through the air, landing in the direct center of the target. Gods, was he bad at anything?
