Page 3 of Artemysia

“Only fools are fearless.” - Riev

H e barely flinches when I jerk my knee to his gut, but a swift kick knocks my leg aside, pinning his thigh to mine.

“Watch yourself.” A snarl rips from him. “Why would you let your guard down?”

“I’m not afraid of you.” My words come out in a rasp, his fingers still digging into the skin of my throat.

I could break out of it, but dominance isn’t always won by escaping.

“Only fools are fearless,” he scoffs, but his palm eases off my neck. “Admit that I win.”

His face is inches from mine, end-of-the-day scruff on the slope of his jaw. The cut across his left eye has clotted over, but a scab hasn’t formed yet.

Was it earlier today that he almost lost an eye?

When I look past the perma-scowl, I can appreciate his delicate features and high cheekbones. Nothing like the locals, especially in the pairing of those silver eyes with coffee-colored hair.

He’s released my throat but still grips my wrist against the wall next to my head.

His palm is oddly smooth. Where are the calluses?

His skin is feverishly hot. I have no idea if he’s always this warm or if he’s fired up from our scuffle, but he’s completely unbothered, and his breathing is even. He hasn’t broken a sweat at all.

Moisture beads on my own face.

I glare up at him. “Surrender denied. We were done. I assessed you and didn’t find you to be dangerous.”

“You’re wrong about me.” He curves over me. Dangerously.

Instead of wrestling away, I rise to the balls of my feet, sliding my back up the wall until we are nose to nose.

At this, he firms his mouth into a line as if he might frown or grin, but he does neither.

“What do you do for the corps?” I ask casually, to appear unruffled—when really, with his firm body pressed to mine, I’m increasingly aware of his mountain forest scent, his fierce winter-wolf eyes, his swollen red lips.

The last one is thanks to my fist, but I find myself shamelessly wondering what they might taste like.

No more rich-people brandy for you, Delphine .

He’s not my type. He’s not sweet, he’s not trustworthy.

But the attraction is undeniably there.

Is it the thrill and panic of today? Or is some other element influencing me?

His brows pinch. He looks caught off-guard by my question.

“Messenger.” He doesn’t back off but releases my forearm as if it scalds him all of a sudden.

For a fleeting moment, I wonder why he’s looking at me that way. It’s a fiery look I’ve seen on the faces of previous lovers—one that spikes heat into my insides.

The alarming thought occurs to me that if he’s going to kiss me, he’d better do it soon, or we might just stand there glaring at each other all night.

Have I lost my mind? We basically just attacked each other in a back-alley fight. He’s not going to kiss me. Do I want him to? No! Though…the alley behind the Ghost Elk is known for both drunken fighting and strangers kissing in the dark.

His body tenses against mine as he dips forward.

Dark lashes skim his cheeks as he drops his gaze to my mouth.

Are we doing this? Gods, I haven’t kissed anyone in over a year.

The only people I meet are the ones I command (not allowed) and Syf (definitely frowned upon and too revolting to even consider).

Blood rises into my cheeks. When they burn like this, I know they’re splotched red as if slapped. He must see it, because he grazes the back of his knuckles along one side of my face, setting off a prickle along my skin where he touches. Gods alive, the sultry confidence he possesses.

His lips part slightly.

He steps in until my back is flush against the wall. The cool stone on my shoulders is at odds with the striking warmth of his body. His breath smells of rich, oaky bourbon.

Footsteps echo from the end of the alley, turning both our heads.

He pushes back abruptly.

I kick off against the baseboards of whatever shop we’re behind. Probably a bakery, judging from the burlap sacks and barrels that probably held flour and the empty crates labeled Sugar , a rarity in our lands.

It’s why candy and pastries are so expensive.

“Captain. There you are.” A deep, familiar voice is followed by a muscled silhouette with short, wavy hair, like a blonde monster cherub.

Throgmorton. My second in command.

“I’m fine. Just getting some air.” I’m hoping he doesn’t catch the waver in my voice.

Throg closes the distance with heavy strides and towers over us.

His gaze travels between me and the stranger and back again. He exhales a sound somewhere between a grunt and a hmph .

“That ‘air’ looks mysterious and handsome…maybe a little dangerous.” Throg keeps things simple.

He seems pleased with his assessment. It must have looked as intimate as it felt rather than the fervent end of a wild dog fight for dominance. But Throg doesn’t ask questions about my personal life unless he can’t sleep and wants to keep me awake to chat the night away .

“Go back to your whiskey, Commander,” I tell him gruffly.

“I’m not a commander until you’re officially promoted tomorrow.” Throg turns to the stranger. “What’s your name, handsome?” He flashes what I know is his menacing grin. “In case my captain disappears and I need to hunt you down.”

“Riev.” Ree-v , he breathes out one long e , deathly calm and quiet—a viper before a strike.

“Riev, huh? I’m Throg.”

“I’ve already forgotten your name,” Riev says impassively.

Throg snorts. “I won’t forget yours.” A toothy grin shows straight white teeth, aimed only at me.

He’s too good-natured and clever to start a fight over a mildly snarky insult.

“Holler if you need me. Remember, we get our next mission tomorrow, so have fun, but don’t stay out too late.

” Throg lifts his massive stein and salutes before lumbering back toward the pub.

Even though he knows I can take care of myself, he can’t help watching out for me like a big brother. He’s been with the Academy longer than I have but would rather follow than lead. After we met in training ten years ago, he decided to follow me.

I glance back at Riev. I’m willing to bet my life that my face flushes again as our eyes meet.

To fill the awkward silence, I hear myself begin to prattle on about Throg. “Don’t let his big, brutish appearance fool you. His nails are manicured and his rings are real gold and gemstone. He can’t stand ale so he has the bartender fill his mug with the best whiskey there is. Orion Throgmorton.”

A brow lifts. Everyone knows the Throgmorton name.

Riev remains silent, though. I’m about to turn away but stop dead in my tracks, unable to stifle a gasp. “Your eye is bleeding!”

The cut across his left eye, from eyebrow to cheek, has split, perhaps made worse by our scuffle. Blood weeps down his cheek.

It’s disgusting and wickedly sexy at the same time.

He touches it and winces when his fingers come away dark and wet with blood. “Damn Syf. It’s fine.”

Finally, some information. “Where?”

“Artemysia.”

Artemysia. The Syf forest. “What were you doing there?”

“Someone has to find out why the Syf are leaving Artemysia to kill us.”

My eyes narrow in on him. “That’s your assignment? As a messenger ?”

Why the Syf began to attack us twenty years ago is an endless mystery—especially after two hundred years of keeping to themselves in peace, hidden in the woods of Artemysia.

And the Academy would never send a messenger to find out.

Diplomacy is impossible. Syf are not known to speak any language at all, much less read or write. There are old stories that humans and Syf used to trade over two hundred years ago, but at this point they may as well be myth.

Even more peculiar, no human has crossed the woods and made it back alive, not in recorded history, at least. The Syf claim the entire forest, which runs east to west, coast to coast, across our peninsula shaped like a fish leaping out of water.

No one knows what is on the other side of Artemysia, what is at the other end of our peninsula.

He answers me with unreadable silence, his teeth gritted.

“Were you alone?” I press.

He glances away. “No. They slaughtered the two members of my squad who came with me.”

Oh. No wonder the morose, drinking-alone-in-the-alley behavior. I’ve lost comrades too, and each time, instead of getting easier, it gets worse. Heavier in the heart and in the soul.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Where are you staying?”

“Why, you want to join me?” he says darkly, a devious smirk plastered across his face.

My cheeks immediately heat. “That’s not what I meant,” I reply, mortified.

I would never . A stranger for one night is not my style at all. Immediate attraction like this just doesn’t happen to me.

I need personality; I need to know they care.

But this is neither, and I’m thrown.

The heat of that almost-kiss lingers, pooling in my lower belly like liquid fire. I fight down the embarrassment and recover, shooting him a fierce look that forces him to backpedal on his words .

“I’ll find an inn,” he says.

“This late? Accommodations in the area are full. Everyone’s come in for the ceremonies tomorrow, even the outer regiments and battalions.”

He shrugs one muscular shoulder. “Well, this alleyway looks damn cozy.”

“No one’s allowed to sleep in the streets here. Have you been to Stargazer City before?”

“First time,” he mutters, frowning as if he resents casual conversation.

“Well, I can patch up your eye so you won’t lose it and give you a tour of the entire province in five minutes.

Interested?” Stargazer is the largest city in South Kingdom, so my claim is nearly impossible, but I have an idea that might get a flighty, shifty, I don’t need help kind of soldier to do exactly what’s best for him.

I’m tough when I fight, but only out of a desire to keep everyone alive.

I need him to agree to get his eye cleaned before infection sets in. Syf claws, blood, and saliva carry all sorts of diseases, we’re told. Like rabid wolves.

He takes a deep breath, seemingly considering my offer, and then grunts out a noise that is neither approval nor disapproval. His face relaxes into something less of a frown.

Finally, something other than that grave, evaluating expression.

Messengers have it rough. They risk their lives to deliver orders to the outer regiments and to report the latest attacks.

They often travel alone; a squad would attract Syf attention.

Hawks and falcons don’t work for messaging.

If the birds get close enough to Syf, their loyalties tend to shift.

Elk too, so the Academy relies on people like him.

“So, yes?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “You have me intrigued.”

“I do? Yay.” A hint of sarcasm, but it’s okay to care, I tell myself. I’m happy to help. No one suffers on my watch.

“Yay denied,” he says gruffly.

Gesturing to my left, I spin away to lead us out of the alleyway, but I can’t help grinning.

“Your grumpiness is growing on me.”