***
While awaiting reinforcements from the clan, we kept watch over the knights’ camp and renovated portions of treehouses.
In her free hours, Aspen continued drafting new weapon designs. Two of them included a special type of rope for Flare and a blade that grew cold when it pierced the body, which suited Jeryn’s taste. Excited, she presented them to me and Nicu for feedback.
Routinely, we turned the enclave into a training complex. Sometimes Lyrik joined, which yielded antagonistic results.
Not for the first time, the rogue divested himself of his shirt, cliffs of skin luring Nicu’s gaze like a confectionery. He’d been educated on intercourse by his parents, especially his father. This much, I knew. But while the young man had identified his attraction to males at an early age, and while his singular beauty drew unprejudiced suitors at court, none had seized Nicu’s interest for more than friendship.
With Lyrik’s athletic physique on display, including a few knife scars and chemical burns I hadn’t noticed before, I sensed the disruption in my liege. His pupils eclipsed the green in his irises. Something pure and possibly vexed beset his countenance.
Nicu loved everyone he met. He’d never despised a soul, other than King Rhys. Even when the conservative supremacists at court discreetly snubbed his presence—always when Poet, Briar, and Avalea were absent—Nicu faced them all with mettle and spirit. No one had ever pushed his composure, nor his temperament.
Until now.
Externally, Nicu did not favor Lyrik. Not in ways he could make peace with.
The squatter exercised his rondel dagger against my broadswords. During our round, he spun and flipped the weapon into complicated maneuvers, as if he’d been intrinsically bonded to the apparatus. Or as if he had been bred with privileged combat knowledge.
I swapped a glance with Aspen, who frowned in kind. She had won the first match against him, only by a margin.
He was a good fighter. Too good for our peace of mind.
Nicu’s turn came. He had done well with the blade Aspen constructed for him, but he still required advancement in hand-to-hand matches. Poet had brought me up to speed on that.
It would take a feat for Nicu to progress, to understand the fundamentals and where to aim his fists during quick-motion jabs. Yet soon enough, he would find his own footing. I felt certain of it.
Trusting the males could handle it, I paired Lyrik with Nicu during training. At the onset, Lyrik complained, calling it an unfair fight.
“Come on,” he sneered. “I can’t bash in the songbird’s face—”
Nicu’s right hook landed, knocking the prick square off his feet. On a shocked grunt, Lyrik pitched backward, his corded muscles slamming into the ground. Instead of remorse, satisfaction fired across my liege’s face like a bolt of flame. Shaking out his hand, he stared down at the squatter with the spiteful glee of a faerie, as if he’d just discovered the honed art of trickery, in addition to experiencing the endorphin rush of his life.
Blood trickled from the corner of Lyrik’s mouth, and fury contorted his expression. With the force of a cannon, he launched into motion, his earring flashing as sharply as his pupils. Vaulting off the grass, the inflammatory man lunged in retaliation.
Hissing, I got there first. My arm whipped out, shackling Lyrik’s waist to hold him back.
Would Lyrik have actually hurt Nicu? I doubted it. Otherwise, I’d have snapped the man’s neck myself.
From the way Lyrik’s eyes burned, I had a feeling the rogue would have done something entirely different if he’d gotten his hands on the Royal Son.
***
I would like to say we were dignified, but I would be lying. The insatiability extended to private weapon drills, while Aspen wheeled away from me, dodging the lash of my sword.
Bracing for another attack, I held up my cupped palm and crooked my fingers twice, beckoning her. Aspen flipped the axe, the blade extending and retracting into grooves. A dexterous upgrade she’d given the weapon prior to our sojourn.
Powering across the glade, the woman swung at my torso. I leaped back, my abdomen caving to avoid the strike, then I thrust my sword, invigorated when she managed to block me.
To share this same passion. It was nothing short of exhilarating.
Whenever her motifs stung, she grimaced and fought harder. I loathed my inability to help but planned to massage her skin later.
Once I took her down.
With our weapons crossed, we pushed our weight into each other. She made a bawdy remark. I kissed her swiftly over the blades.
Then we flew backward and threw ourselves into it again. Her axe clattered against my swords. We pivoted, ducked, and vaulted around one another like a mating display.
