My brows hitch. ‘Fourteen?’ Stars, even Lukas wasn’t allowed to hold a weapon until he was sixteen. ‘What fourteen-year-old thinks of learning to throw daggers at that age?’
I say it rhetorically, not thinking he’ll actually reply, because this might be the longest conversation we’ve had since before Lukas died. So, colour me surprised when he shrugs and says, ‘I had to entertain myself somehow. Big house, no one around. Lots of weapons hanging from the walls begging to be touched.’
I have a sudden flashback of Sebastian and I sitting out in my backyard while we waited for Lukas to come outside. I asked him where he lived and what his parents did. It was my attempt at not only digging for information about my brother’s new friend, but also an attempt at making one of my own. Sebastian told me his parents weren’t alive anymore. They both died when he was nine, so he lived in his grandfather’s house alone. I remember feeling appalled when he explained it was like that from the age of twelve and that his grandfather popped in to visit every few weeks, but the older he became, the less frequent the visits were. There was a cleaner that came once a week, and his tutor that came five days a week. Other than that, Sebastian grew up in that house alone. It broke my heart at the time, and made me long to make our home, his.
I avert my gaze.
‘I have something else for you,’ he says after a long moment of silence. He moves quietly, his boots barely making a sound on the hard floor as he lowers to his bag once more and holds up the leather belt contraption he pulled out earlier.
His thumb caresses the black stitching woven into the leather edges. ‘It’s a sheath,’ he explains, filling in for my silence.
A sheath? ‘What for?’ I ask. And why is he giving it to me?
‘Because your training pants don’t have pockets big enough for daggers,’ he answers as if it’s obvious. He ignores the scowl I shoot in his direction and gets up to walk across the room toward me, sheath dangling from two fingers. I barely move, barely fucking breathe as he lowers to his knees right in front of my feet and orders, ‘Lift up your leg.’
I let out a sharp breath, steady but guarded. Unsure of what the hell is happening. But nonetheless, my foot rises off the floor.I don’t dare look at him, my eyes stay entirely focused on the leather sheath, too afraid of what I might see if I do. Or too afraid of whathewill see.
I tense as he slides the sheath over my foot and slowly moves it up my calf, then places my bare foot on his thigh. His hands are calloused and scarred. Dozens of tiny cuts decorate his skin, pale lines that stand out against his tanned complexion. They’re the hands of someone who has worked hard to get where they are. The hands of a warrior. I might give him shit, but there is no doubting that Sebastian Zain has earned every scar on his body through discipline and training.
He moves on to threading the straps through the buckles and tightening them, and I can’t help but start to breathe a little heavier the longer I feel his rough skin brush against mine. My thoughts drift from how capable he is with a blade in his hands, to how capable he must be with a lover. All those callouses, running up soft thighs. The veins on his hands and forearms tensing beneath his skin as he …
‘Nocthare,’ he breathes my name out harshly, like he’s in pain. ‘You’re squeezing my hand.’
I’m what? My eyes snap down to his. Embarrassment floods me as I realise that I’ve been squeezing my thighs together, effectively locking his right hand in between my knees. Restricting his movement.
My mouth opens and closes – I’m unable to form words because what I see in his eyes floor s me. They’re molten green, burning with intensity and heat. He looks at me like he wants to devour me, and if I’m stupid enough, I might let him. His full lips are parted just slightly, and when his hands tighten around my thigh and knee, a soft whimper accidentally slips from my mouth.
He swallows, thickly, before clearing his throat and dropping his gaze to return to the sheath, which he starts tugging on to check if it’s secure. The dark leather is a stark contrast to my pale skin. I can’t help but admire it.
‘You suit it,’ he says, voice like gravel.
‘It … feels good.’ My voice is breathy. His fingers curl around the straps tightly. I wait for him to let go, to release me from his hold and rise to his feet. But he doesn’t.
‘Sebas—’
‘Give me a minute,’ he grits out, eyes trained on the patch of skin between the top of the sheath and the hem of my sleep shorts.
I nod, or at least I think I nod. I’m not entirely sure of what my body is doing right now. I feel his fingers start to move agonisingly slowly against my skin. The tips of his fingers draw tiny circles behind my knee and up the back of my thigh, until I feel him reach my shorts. He plays with the hem for a moment, his hot breath skittering against my skin, making it pebble.
Stars, I could die like this, I think to myself. Whatever line we’ve been toeing up until tonight seems to thin, so much so that I can barely see it.
I don’t move, neither does he. We stay this way, with both our eyes locked on his hands as they explore my skin, the sheath, the crescent-shaped scar I have on the inside of my knee. I feel my arousal grow, until I can’t help but shift my legs in response to the building heat that pulses in between my thighs.
A low groan vibrates from his chest and, Stars, does he know I’m turned on? Can he sense it? Can he—
‘Arianell,’ his voice is barely a whisper. But it cuts deep enough that I close my eyes and hang my head. That’s the second time he’s said my name and it’s like a blow to the head and heart both at once.
This is wrong. This is not what I should be doing. Letting him touch me like this. Thinking the thoughts I’ve been thinking. Ones where he leaps to his feet and hooks his arms behind my legs to pick me up and throw me against my bed, only to lay down in between my thighs.
This is Sebastian Zain. The man who hates me. Who wants me to leave. Who has repeatedly scorned me in front of other students and who was my brother’s best friend, turned traitor.
With monumental effort, I step back, creating some much-needed distance between us. His hands fall to his thighs; he fists them tightly as if they need something else to grab onto now that I’m not within reach.
‘I think—’
‘Yeah,’ he cuts me off, abruptly standing to his full height, towering over me. ‘I’ve got to go see Jed,’ he blurts out, expression turning cold and detached. As if nothing happened. Then he turns on his heel and bolts out of the room, leaving my chest shuddering on an exhale.
Something has changed.
