She grimaced up at him and grumbled, “Don’t be easy on me. If Geneva shows her face, I won’t be allowed a breather in the middle of the battle. Be brutal, just don’t rip my sutures.”
Luca scoffed. “Ula would have my head if I ripped yours—or mine.”
“That ispreciselywhy I didn’t tell Ula we would be here,” Amarande answered. “Besides, she could just sew your lovely head back onto your body. You know she would. You’re more her king than I am her queen.”
Luca laughed and backpedaled toward the edge of the trees that lined the meadow to reset his stance for the next parry to her attack. “Ah, but she’s loyal to both of us. And we’ll face equal fury.”
Amarande arched a brow. “Then let’s not rip our sutures, shall we?”
The words were barely out when Amarande charged without warning, blade held high in a double grip, stabilizing her weak points as much as possible. As she barreled toward him, Luca raised his weapon, angling it to again strain her injured arm, pulling the crux of their sword clash from the center of their bodies out to the side.
The force of his blow not only pushed her sword in a useless wide arc but whirled her around.
In a blink, Amarande was pinned against a juniper tree. Her arms were wrenched over her head, one wilting under the strain of the sutures along it, Luca’s angle much more comfortable because of his height. Worse for Amarande’s situation, he’d changed his grip—one hand pushed against the hilt, the other using the lack of sharp edges on the practice sword to his advantage, grabbing hold of the blade, and pressing it hard against the trunk at her back, the leverage terrible on her position.
Luca was close enough now that she could either kick him or kiss him.
Honestly, Amarande wasn’t sure which she preferred in the moment. She hated to lose a fight but even with the painful torque against her shoulders, she was already lost in Luca’s golden eyes. Warm, inviting, safe.Hers.She was a well-trained fighter, but there was no defense against what she felt when he looked at her like this.
In the end, Luca chose for both of them.
With a quick shift in pressure, he swept both swords aside. They dropped in a metallic thump to the fallen juniper needles that littered the meadow from seasons past.
Luca released her hands and pressed his lips to hers.
All the fight fled out of her as Amarande’s arms fell first to her sides, and then around Luca’s waist, struggling to gain a grip against the smooth metal of his chest guard as it clanged into hers. Her hands snaked up Luca’s neck, finding better purchase to deepen the embrace. His skin was flushed with the salt of sweat, but the taste of him sweet.
Amarande felt as if she could stay in that moment forever, warm and sheltered, and whole. One heartbeat, one suspended breath, one experience under the sun.
After a time—too soon, in her opinion—Luca pulled away, shifting his hands so that they could protect her head from the scratch and tear of the tree bark at her back. At this changed distance, Amarande could look into his eyes again, and brush a lock of black hair from his brow. “Luca, do you remember when we fought here the day my father died?”
She watched as his golden gaze disappeared, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones. “That is not something I will ever forget.”
Oh, this softhearted boy. “That day, I had you pinned to the ground, a knife to your throat.”
He laughed a little. “I haven’t forgot that either.”
Amarande arched a brow, though she knew he wouldn’t see it. “I’d imagine not—a knife to the throat isn’t easily forgotten.”
Luca grinned then as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Well, it’s not the knife, but the closeness ofyouwith the knife that, um, is the memorable combination.”
“For me too.”
She wet her lips to continue, only to have him swoop in and kiss her again, quick and insistent. Amarande laughed against the press of his mouth because she hadn’t been trying to entice him, but kissed him back with enough force that she was able to gain leverage, spin him around, and pinhimto the tree.
They stumbled over one of the practice swords, but steadied like the quick-footed fighters they were—Luca pressed against the trunk, and Amarande enjoying every moment of it as she gazed up at him from this new vantage.
Luca’s breathing was still labored from sparring, and Amarande relished the rise and fall of his chest against her own, despite the metal protecting and muffling their hearts. Her hands slid down Luca’s neck, his pulse thrumming under her palms. Her forearms draped across the solid cut of his collarbones and chest, his stable-built body as sturdy as the tree at his back.
Amarande sunk into the gold flecks shimmering in the depths of Luca’s eyes. They were the same as they always had been. The only difference was now that she could not misread the love there as anything but his heart on display. That love had been in his tender gaze for so long, and yet she’d been blind to it, thinking it was only her hopes reflected back.
“Luca—”
The exaggerated clearing of a throat cut off her words. Both of them wrenched around to the entrance of the meadow, where General Koldo stood, inspecting one gloved hand as if she had not just witnessed such a private moment.
Just as she had on the terrible day of King Sendoa’s death, Koldo knew exactly where Amarande would be.
In the meadow, with Luca. Always with Luca.
