Unger hadn’t been a large man, which suited the former assassin, his lithe body honed by vigorous exercise. Yarif once watched him scale a tower wall with only hands and bare feet.
Yarif stepped into the exquisite rhythm of parry-thrust-whirl, imagining Unger’s graceful movements. In his mind, Yarif fought Commander Draylon, Captain Rufe, and even the emperor himself, bringing them each to their knees. Even in his imagination, the satisfaction of defeating his foes lifted Yarif’s mood.
He didn’t try many rolls, as bruises might be noticed by his husband. Maybe if he extinguished the lanterns on the wedding night. But no. Yarif could leave off part of his routine this once.
The joys of his body grew overwhelming, the precise way his muscles worked, the sweat slicking his skin. How his chest expanded and deflated with his breathing.
“Your body is a weapon,”he heard Unger say.
Yarif darted toward the wall, keeping momentum and running several feet up the side before throwing his weight backward, flipping, and landing again.
Slow clapping sounded to the left. He whirled, candlestick outstretched. Oh, how ridiculous he must look. He shoved the shiny bit of silver behind his back. “What are you doing in my rooms?” The words didn’t come out as strongly as he’d hoped because the exertion left him breathless.
Draylon leaned against the doorframe. “Your guard was… concerned about your behavior.”
Ah, yes. Time to rethink room security. “You could have knocked.”
“I did. Several times.”
Yarif must’ve been caught up in his practice.
“Very impressive moves, by the way, and of a style I’m unfamiliar with.” An amused smile tugged at Draylon’s lips as he ran his eyes over Yarif’s body, though it did little to dispel his usual gruff demeanor.
What? Oh! Yarif dashed into his bedchamber and wrapped himself in a dressing gown. His face flamed. Here he’d been nearly naked, the thin cotton fabric of his trousers sticking to his legs and ass, made transparent by sweat.
The mere thought of Draylon of the powerful body seeing Yarif undressed set butterflies fluttering in his stomach. Or birds of prey. Either way, they wanted out.
Yarif re-entered the room with all the dignity he could muster and settled on his favorite chair. He waved a hand in what he hoped passed for an idle gesture since the stubborn oaf didn’t seem inclined to go away.
“What style of fighting were you practicing?” Draylon asked before he’d even sat down.
Yarif couldn’t tell the truth, that the injured man villagers found in a field turned out to be a trained assassin from an enemy kingdom, who swore an oath to Yarif’s mother. “My tutor died of a fever just last year.” Please let that be enough information to satisfy Draylon’s curiosity.
“I’m sorry.”
Yarif glanced sharply at Draylon. “Why? You didn’t know him.”
“But you did.” Draylon kept his voice low. “He mattered to you.”
“Yes. He did matter.” Empathy? Really? A barbarian who acknowledged another’s pain? It must be some kind of trick.
Expression somber, Draylon said, “This must be hard for you. You’ve lost so much, yet you don’t seem overly bitter. I’ve known people who’ve had a far easier life yet spent their days pitying themselves.”
“Pitying myself? When so many others depend on me? How could I be so selfish?”
“Could you teach me some of those moves one day?”
Odd for a warrior to ask for teaching from a man who’d never been to battle. Yarif shook his head. “Your sword would be too heavy. You’d need a thin blade.”
“Like yours?”
“Yes. Which is why I practice with a candlestick.” Once more, heat raced to Yarif’s face. Silence hung between them.
Draylon nodded. “Once you’re officially named king consort, I’ll see to it your sword is returned.”
“Rapier. It’s called a rapier. I learned to fight with a rapier and by how I move my body.” Best not to reveal his skill with knives—at least not yet, though the ones the guards took from him might’ve provided a hint.
“I’d love to learn, but only if you agree.”
