Page 23 of Court of Secrets and Flames (Dragons of Tirene #2)
Chapter Twenty-Three
The sun beats down with a vengeance, scorching the open training field where I hover a foot above the parched earth. Knox stands before me, his silhouette haloed by the blinding light, a heavy leather ball gripped in his hand. He tosses it—no, hurls it—with a force that should be reserved for enemies, not reluctant apprentices like myself.
My weight increases when my fingers close around the ball, but I hold steady with gritted teeth. I’m supposed to throw it back without dipping an inch lower, maintaining this cursed distance above ground while we thrust the ball back and forth.
“Keep focused, Lark.” His words strike like barbed stones, cutting as they sink deep into the well of my resentment.
It’s difficult to do with my arms going numb. “I’m trying.”
This is my second day of excruciating training sessions with Knox since I got my wings, and I’m mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. We’ve trained with various weapons and practiced magic. And now this. All with our wings out.
King Jasper decreed it. His brother must train his future bride and bring me up to speed swiftly. The king seems oddly insistent about the matter, and since our interests align in terms of me becoming a proficient flyer, I don’t protest.
I’m still not going to marry him.
Knox’s momentary tenderness, when pain wracked my back and he drew me a bath, is but a distant memory as he presses on with the callousness of the Barda bloodline, intent on shaping me into a tool, a weapon.
He’s in an exceptionally gruff mood today, his jaw tensed like he’s worried about something. He’s been pissy since his brother’s surprise announcement but today is even worse. Every time I try to ask him what’s going on or attempt conversation, though, he mumbles a few words and continues with our torture session.
It takes me back to not so very long ago, during my training at Flighthaven. Then, he had a persona to maintain. A reputation as the academy’s strictest instructor to uphold. Now? The charade is over, and he’s training me—pushing me—like my life might one day depend on it.
“Your form is slipping,” Knox barks at me with his feet planted on the ground and his wings at rest. “Try again.”
I comply, throwing the ball back with a force that mirrors my inner tempest. The weight leaves my hands, but the heaviness, full of distrust and unspoken yearnings, of unanswered questions and fear of the future, remains in my chest.
Without even waiting a breath this time, he throws the ball right back.
I catch it, my wings beating the air. Each pass, each command from Knox, only fuels the fire of my discontent.
They expect me to be their champion, their prophesied savior, but no one asked me if I wanted to play this part. They want me to fulfill their prophecy, yet no one bats an eye that it calls for my death.
Not even Knox.
For a fleeting moment, I search for a sliver of what once was in Knox’s gaze, but he’s all business, his expression unreadable. All traces of the softer man from last night have disappeared.
His voice cuts through the air, heavy with impatience. “Higher.”
I push against the gravity that drags me down. The field, a vast canvas of green devoid of any cover where I might seek respite, stretches out. My wings beat harder, lifting me another inch, another foot, obeying despite the wail of overworked sinews and the heaviness that clings to my bones.
He throws the ball, and for a moment, it’s just the two of us and the challenge between us. A searing image intrudes on the thoughtless work. One of Knox, bare and glistening. Of skin against skin, breaths mingling, and passion igniting.
My skin prickles, not just from the sweat that drenches my clothes but from the remembrance of a time when Knox and I were more than just trainer and trainee. The memory of our closeness, the intimacy we shared, stings more sharply than any physical pain.
The ball slips through my grasp, thudding to the ground.
“Damn it, Lark! Pay attention.” His eyes spark as he glares at me, his tone curt. “You need to learn to fly with weight, or you’ll end up in a twisted heap or dead. Go again.”
Biting back a retort, I swoop down to retrieve the heavy sphere despite my protesting muscles. I’m so very tired. Not just from the exertion, but from the constant battle raging within me to push away the desire that clings like a second skin, to ignore the longing that distracts me at the worst possible moments.
After a deep breath, I rise back into the air, the motion straining my sweat-soaked shirt taut across my breasts. Knox’s eyes flicker to my chest, revealing a hint of the man he hides beneath the surface. For a heartbeat, he’s vulnerable, and in that instant, I’m spurred by a reckless impulse.
“Is that what I am to you? A symbol? Someone to fulfill an ancient prophecy?” With leaden arms, I launch the ball, infusing it with every ounce of strength I can muster.
“What? No.” He catches it with a grunt and staggers backward. “Shit. Not bad. That’s more like it.” With a sigh, he sets the ball on the ground and motions me toward him.
I ease myself to the ground and walk to him, aware of the eyes on us. Courtiers chatter and observe like I’m king-appointed entertainment, there to prevent boredom from setting in. Some of them whisper behind their hands, eyes bright with morbid fascination, and yesterday, a group of spectators even had the unmitigated audacity to come out with a blanket and hamper carried by servants and have a little picnic while they watched us spar. I spot the curvy woman with shiny hair from the other night studying me from within a small group of other well-dressed people.
Their attention crawls along my skin and rattles my nerves. I’m starting to feel a little bit like a pet bird again, one they’re training to perform on command.
Yeah, not happening. I refuse to escape one cage only to get trapped within another. Aclaris may not be my home any longer, but here, among these people, isn’t either.
Not yet anyway.
I stop a few feet in front of Knox. “Care to tell me what’s got you in such a lovely mood?”
Though I half-expect him to brush off my concern like he’s done all day, he gestures for me to walk with him. Once we’re out of earshot and away from all the prying eyes, he halts.
“My worries are probably the same as yours. I hate that someone tried to kidnap you, and we have no idea who he is or if he’ll come back.” Knox makes a circle in the dirt with the toe of his boot. “And then there’s Jasper’s comment about you producing his heirs. It’s bad enough that you two are betrothed.”
“Agreed. I worry about those things too. But you know I have no intention of following through with any of that with Jasper. If he wants me to produce royal heirs, well, he’s shit out of luck. I’d find a way to escape.”
Knox goes rigid. “I’d help you escape myself before I ever let that happen.”
I stare at him and shake my head. “I don’t get you. You’re the one who deceived me, kidnapped me, and brought me here in the first place.”
He shrugs like we’re talking about something as mundane as the weather. “Like I told you before, things are complicated. I love my brother, and that will never change. But my loyalty? That’s with Tirene…and with you.”
At his confession, my heart does a little dance, one I attempt to squash. Misplaced hope will only hurt me in the long run.
I do my best to play it off. “Big talk considering you didn’t like me when you first met me.”
“Never said I didn’t like you.” He leans down and rests his forehead against mine. “I had a job to do, but from day one, you distracted the hells out of me.”
I trap my lower lip between my teeth. “Am I distracting you now?”
Knox releases a low, guttural, need-filled groan. “What do you think?” He presses a soft kiss to my lips, and I wind my arms around his neck. “This is risky. If we’re caught…”
“I know.” I kiss him back, and my eyes slide shut as the weight of the day fades. “Two minutes.”
“It’s not nearly enough…but I’ll take it.”
The chill of the water lingers on my skin as I stand in the center of my bathing chamber. My damp, heavy wings drag down my shoulders with a weight that is both metaphorical and all too physical.
I twist, attempting to reach every feathered expanse, but it’s no use. The memory of Knox’s lips on mine, of the way he touched the most sensitive parts of my wings and whispered in my ear while we stole a few moments, comes to my mind unbidden.
Despite the soreness of my muscles, a smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
Halting my fruitless efforts, I instead shake my wings out, droplets scattering across the tiled floor like tiny stars flung from a celestial hand.
The movement triggers a fresh wave of aches through my tired body. I close my eyes and focus, calling forth the fire magic that simmers within my blood and feeling its eager response.
Warmth blooms in my palms, a welcome contrast to the cold bath that Knox assured would aid in muscle recovery. How he managed to convince me, I’ll never know. The heat from my hands spreads, seeping into my flesh like a soothing balm to the day’s relentless strain.
“I guess a fiery dry-off will have to do.”
With a deep breath, I inhale damp stone and linen, the scents grounding me in the moment. With one last brush of magic-infused heat over my wings, I extinguish the flames prancing upon my skin, leaving only an echo of their warmth behind.
As I wrap the robe tighter around my aching body, the fabric brushes against sensitive skin still flushed from the grueling day. Pungent aroma aside, the liniment’s cool relief as I slather it over my sore muscles is undeniable. With each application, the day’s strains and bruises fade into a dull ache.
Grumbling under my breath about stubborn trainers and their blasted cold baths, I gingerly dress in a simple garment. As the fabric catches on my wings, I contort myself to accommodate the span of my back.
I still don’t know how to put the stupid things away. Knox keeps saying I’ll get it “one day,” but he doesn’t say what it I’ll get.
In the meantime, I have to resign myself to not sleeping on my back.
Maybe I should reach out to Duchess Breann, though the thought of more training makes me groan.
I slip out the door of my chamber, nodding at the guard who falls into line behind me as I weave through the corridors. The hush of the hallway swallows every light tap of my slippered feet.
My determination to escape may have weakened, but knowledge is power, and I still have a prophecy to worry about. The more I understand about my heritage, the safer I’ll be. Counting intersections, I near the Royal Archives. When I enter, silence greets me, save for the soft sigh of my own breath.
Inside, the shelves taunt me with endless rows of dust and cobweb-shrouded spines and the scent of parchment and leather. I poke through the titles, hunting for something helpful about my ancestors, but it’s The Big Book of Eel Recipes that stops me cold.
A surprised laugh escapes me. What the hells is it with me stumbling across eel cookbooks in random libraries?
As I inspect the disorganized rows and piles, an eerie sensation hits me, like someone walking over my grave. Almost as if one of these tomes is calling to me.
An image of the book from my dream the other night slithers into my brain, sending goose bumps coursing over my flesh.
Okay, now I’m really starting to lose it. I’ll take that as the nudge I need to return to my room.
Shaking my head at my own jumpiness, I leave the archives, determined to ignore the odd, prickly sensation that I’m leaving something important behind.