Page 83 of Huntress

Elsie hesitated. “My demon needs a room next to mine.”

Roz stared for a second, then laughed Elsie right out of the room. “Some things aren’t possible, even for me.”

Elsie paused out in the hallway, puzzled to find she wasn’t upset about it. She mulled it over all the way back to her quarters.

“I tried to get you your own room again, but Roz refused. Guess you’re stuck with me,” Elsie apologized after she returned. He met her halfway across the room, standing so close that she took a step back.

“You didn’t waste any time trying. Are you eager to get rid of me, Mistress?”

Her muscles strained toward him. Just one step forward and she’d feel the heat of his body against hers.

“A little breathing room would be nice,” she said faintly. He bent down to her level.

“How much room do you need?” his breath hot against the shell of her ear. Elsie’s chest squeezed, balling her hands into fists to stop herself from touching that ridiculously gorgeous face of his.

The bond throbbed between them, a sweet ache demanding their attention and compliance. The grin growing on Saint’s face changed to a grimace, and he retreated to his cot, tail between his legs.

She muttered under her breath, grabbed a book off her shelf, and left. Stupid demon, playing with her like that. Each step she took hit the ground with a thud, and she pushed the door leading outside a little too hard, making it smack against the wall. She cringed at the sound and stomped away, seeking a quiet place to read.

Before slinking back to her room for bed, she made a trip to the medic bay and had them pour her a sleeping draught. They had kegs of the stuff, ready for nights like these, when hunters back from a mission needed a dreamless rest.

Elsie dedicated the next two days to self-care. She woke before dawn and headed out to the training fields. As the sun rose, she moved in and out of gentle yoga poses, maintaining her range of motion and testing her strength. When she finished, she left the barrier to wander the forest beyond the compound.

Saint followed her like an ominous shadow, observing but not participating, until she sat at the bottom of a tree to meditate. As she settled comfortably, he came and sat beside her, closing his eyes. They sat in companionable silence for over an hour. Two scarred creatures breathing the same cool morning air, both trying to soothe the tormented memories in their own minds.

Afternoons belonged to the sewing table. The steady rhythm of the needle piercing fabric was familiar and comforting. By the second day, she finished two new tops and a rugged but flexible pair of leggings. Her cloth pile was slowly shrinking.

Their evenings were quieter. Elsie chose a book and a notebook and practiced reading and writing in the ancient language. Her words faltered when she noticed Saint listening in as she read aloud, expecting his mockery. The ancient language was his mother tongue, after all. He offered no correction or approval.

On the third morning, her body’s healing was complete, and she was ready.

Elsie pushed herself harder, flowing through the stretches into more vigorous and demanding poses. She ran a couple of laps around the track, and by the time Grady and Banks arrived carrying a bag weighted with wooden practice weapons, a light sheen of sweat covered her skin.

Grady tossed her a carved dagger. “You looking for a partner, Boss?”

She caught it and grinned. “Which one of you wants to go first?”

Elsie twirled the wooden dagger as Banks stepped up, a wooden short sword held loosely at his side. They circled, each watching the other’s movements, anticipating the first strike.

He came at her first, a quick thrust meant to bait her into a defensive move. She parried hard, the clack of their weapons echoing across the barren field. Using his own momentum against him, she slipped within his reach, driving her shoulder into his chest and slashing upward with the dagger.

Banks twisted away before she managed to press her blade to his throat, straight back to pressing a new attack.

They fell into a steady rhythm, blades flashing and cracking together as they did their best to disarm one another. Their attacks grew aggressive, with wild combinations that drew in a crowd of bystanders who scrutinized their every move. Elsie pushed until Banks was forced to give ground, and sweat beads formed on their foreheads. His precision almost got her a few times, but in the end she clunked him over his bald head with the hilt, signaling her victory.

Through the rest of the day and the next, she sparred with every available member of her squad, along with anyone else wanting to try their luck. She beat all of them. No mercy, and no pity.

Saint watched her for those two days. Mentally mapping her habits, strengths, and weaknesses. She’d just beaten a veteran from Albright’s squad when he got up and stood across from her.

Elsie grinned and pointed at the bag with her chin. “Grab a weapon.”

He shook his head.

“Suit yourself.” She gripped the dagger, annoyed by his relaxed stance. His dark eyes watched her, but gave nothing away.

She attacked first, launching a series of strikes, aiming for his vitals, she expected it to end quickly. Saint moved with lazy grace, deflecting the blows with his forearms and gliding out of reach. Elsie increased her speed, but it was like chasing her own shadow. She could stab at him all she wanted, but it wouldn’t mean anything until she landed a blow.

He caught her wrist, twisting it with frightening speed, and the dagger clattered to the hard-packed dirt. Saint pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “You’re better than this, Mistress.”