His hair is half-knotted on top of his head to keep it out of his face, and his glasses remain securely looped around his ears, obscuring his mostly-healed black eye. Though his clothes appear so out of place from his usual outfits, he looks more comfortable. More in his element.
I also get to see a lot more of him, which I definitely don’t hate. My pulse hastens much quicker than when I was sword practicing with Cec.
Recalling my own makeshift outfit, I wonder what he thinks of it. I found a men’s white t-shirt two sizes too big in the back of the armoire, and tucked it into a pair of maroon gym shorts that were likely meant for the same man but sit a bit tight on my hipsand ass. From my suitcase, I picked out the only minimizer bra I thought to bring, glad for the foresight.
His gaze slides to my exposed legs, lingering there as my face and neck heat.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks me, then lowers his voice. “After this morning, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
One side of my lips tips up. “As much as I’d love to blame you so that I can watch you brood for another day or so, I’ve forgiven you. Cec, too. You were doing what you thought was right, based on the information your own uncle gave you. I did the same with my nonna. The blame doesn’t rest on you.”
He smiles fully, taking my breath away at the sight. “I’m glad to hear it.”
We stare at each other a little while longer, until the silence becomes unbearable.
“How’s your knife wound?” I ask, clearing my throat.
He reaches for the spot. “Still healing, but better now. What about your knee?”
I glance down at the gauze, repeating his words. “Still healing.” Eyeing his bullet wound again, I wonder, “Do you heal quicker because of the tattoo?”
He shifts that arm, almost unconsciously. “I do. It certainly comes in handy.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, actually meaning it.
With nothing else to say, I bring up my sword. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Bes,” I goad him instead. “Don’t hold back.”
After a moment, his expression shifts to one of mischief, and he grins. “Oh, I shan’t, Miss Hawkins.”
Heat zings up my neck and along my chest.Why did those words make him more attractive to me?I wonder, right as he swings for my midsection with the end of the sword.
I block him just in time, discarding my ill-timed yearning and replacing it with years of fencing practice.
He has me on the defensive from the get-go, forcing me to block each thrust, to thwart every attempt to disarm me. But I recover well. Bes is light on his feet, as I imagined he would be, and unlike me has no trouble wielding the broad sword. His corded muscles flex with the effort.
I find myself needing to catch my breath a bit more often than I’d like to admit and, before long, I’m drenched in sweat. It carves half a dozen paths down my back and the middle of my chest, threatening to fall into my eyes and blind me. My shorts start to ride up too, but I don’t dare pause to pull them down.
I’m concentrating too hard to pay any of it much mind, anyway.
When he lunges forward a step too far, I easily parry his attack and make a lunge of my own. Bes is too quick for me, though. In one easy motion, he blocks my advance, hitting my sword with enough force to disarm me. It clatters to the floor in defeat. Raising his blade, the dull point of it brushes the skin beneath my collarbone.
Chest heaving, I stare into his deep brown eyes. He stands only a foot away now, the clang of metallic blades echoing over our labored breathing.
That was… incredible.
Bes getting the better of me doesn’t disappoint me the way I thought it would. He’s supposedly powered by some sort of magic, after all—if it’s true, he was always going to have the upper hand. AllIcan focus on is how expertly he moved. How lithe he was. After watching him do nothing but hit a soldier over the head with the butt of a gun, shoot one of the God Men and stab another in close quarters, I never would’ve pegged him as a well-trained swordsman.
I’ve underestimated him.
Refusing to break eye contact, I say, “You’re better than I thought you’d be.”
The left side of his lips tips up and he loosens his grasp on the sword. “You’re not as skilled as I thoughtyou’dbe.”
I narrow my eyes.He’s going to regret saying that.
Leaning in slightly, I plant one foot forward. The point of his dull blade bites into the soft skin underneath my clavicle. The cocky grin drops from his face and his grip on the hilt slackens further; he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
I smile softly—then spin away, diving around him and tucking into a quick somersault, grabbing the hilt of my dropped blade in the process. Once I’m on my feet again, I turn on him, sword in hand.
