Time had altered him, unknown events casting shadows where there’d been none before. Lines trenched beneath his eyelids, his light complexion had deepened, and a new scar sliced across the bridge of his patrician nose.
An ankle-length fitted leather vest gaped open, framing the contours of his naked torso. Broad pecs, a few old scars pulping along the steep V of his hip bones, and abs on top of abs. Seasons strike me, he packed even more muscle than he already had before.
I’d outgrown my infatuation. And yet. Like a storm surge, blood rushed to my head, the fucking sight of him nearly capsizing my balance.
Aire’s gaze skidded up and down my figure. Despite his militant expression, something flickered in his pupils. Shock and a visceral emotion with a high temperature.
Also, satisfaction. Because while I’d knocked away one sword, the other hovered parallel to my throat. This man had raised the opposite weapon before I noticed, the move pinching me with aggravation.
The knight’s mouth twitched. Not entirely sportive, nor entirely charitable. A challenge lingered, daring me to strike back.
Palpitations beat a rhythm under my bodice. A bitter thrill coursed through my veins. Now my reaction made sense, this renewed flicker of attraction having nothing to do with the past and everything to do with a mutual passion for exercising our weapons, a connection we fostered long ago.
My cartilage throbbed from the foreplay with Rhun, which meant this next bout was going to hurt worse. Even so, intrigue pulled us closer. The mutual need to see how my skills held up to his own these days.
Like a good sport, I flipped the axe. “Silly knight. You wouldn’t recognize me anymore if you tried.”
Aire’s tone came out level, but his eyes told a different story. Those irises penetrated my cloak, shredding the fabric to bits. “Prove it.”
Civility be damned. I loosened a crick in my neck, accepting the bait because fuck him.
In slow motion, we circled each other. Aire revolved his swords, all previous signs of agitation replaced by well-trained composure.
Sure. He had muscle mass and thirty-four years of experience on my twenty-four. But those were mere numbers.
We paused. Then exploded.
I charged, attacking on the offensive. Aire deflected the first swipe of my axe, turning sideways as my blade stabbed.
Another strike to the left. Then to the right.
Each time, his sword flew, stunting my attempts. With every wallop, memories catapulted through my mind.
The farewell revels. The empathetic look on his face. The words we said.
The whetstone. The vision of him riding away.
I seized another opening, exercising a low, arcing swing. Aire cross-blocked, snaring the axe between his blades. If anything, this man had grown deadlier. He fought with precision, balance, and control. Heedful of spacing, he veered around me with elegant footwork.
I detonated into motion. Shifting the haft of my axe, I hooked one of his swords, yanking him forward, our bodies smacking together.
Aire’s pulse smashed into my own. This close, our outtakes clashed like steam from a furnace.
His pupils swallowed me whole. “You’ve kept your edge.”
Oh, hell no. Beneath the hood, I slit my eyes. “You’ve lost yours.”
And I don’t need your praise, because I’m not the moonstruck girl you left behind.
Aire couldn’t read me like he did everyone else. Yet he didn’t need to. Not to get this message loud and clear.
The moonstruck part didn’t bother him, since he hadn’t sought my affection back then. But his eyebrows knitted at the implication that I found his nerve lacking. Not precisely the truth, but challenging him would push this competition farther.
He broke our connection, ripping away and then driving forward. Lunging, the knight used one sword defensively, the other offensively. A sound method, but useless if executed without care.
This, I’d learned while emotionally manhandling Rhys. This, Aire had been bred to understand.
Fighting angry meant fighting dirty.
