Page 41 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Even though I knew it was coming, Noble’s first strike surprised me.

I wasn’t used to feeling defensive in his presence; the contrast was strange.

I blocked jerkily at first, but eventually found a rhythm, angling my sword horizontally, vertically, deflecting each one of Noble’s slow but persistent blows.

I did not look any farther than his dull practice weapon—even seeing his abs in my periphery was enough to make my heart race far faster than it ought to with this amount of exertion.

“Mind your feet!” Oderin called out to me, and I shuffled sideways, remembering what he’d taught me. “Good, Hattie!”

“Good, Hattie,” Noble repeated softly, and it made me misstep.

I threw out my sword, causing Noble’s blade to slide across mine; I deflected it to the dirt.

“Nicely done!” Oderin called. “Reset.”

We did as we were told. Said the words. Started again.

“You’re better than I expected,” Noble said. The words might’ve sounded patronizing if it weren’t for his utterly sincere, slightly amused tone.

“Really? You’re worse than I expected.”

In response, his blows became a little harder, quaking up the metal of my sword and into my biceps and my shoulder. Meanwhile, he held his non-sword-wielding hand behind his back like this was a pleasant walk along the river.

I put some effort into my blocks, deflecting him with more force, channeling my frustration into my training.

“Remember your core!” Oderin demanded from the sidelines.

I flexed my abdominal muscles, trying not to think about how they’d flexed last night with my hand between my legs as I imagined—

I felt a tap on my thigh: Noble’s sword.

“Reset,” Oderin said.

Noble bounced his eyebrows. “Distracted?”

“Absolutely not.”

We started again, the clack of his strikes and my blocks filling the empty yard .

“Now switch!” Oderin ordered.

Noble stopped his attack at once. It was my turn to take the offensive, but when I looked down at my sword, I hesitated. As much as I wanted to make him sweat, I didn’t want to make him bleed .

“Don’t fear your power, Hattie,” Oderin called. “Trust he can defend himself.”

I shuffled forward, going for my first strike. Noble blocked it, an encouraging smile on his face. “Keep going,” he said softly.

My body heard the words in a different context. I saw it in a flash: that hard, bare torso between my thighs, those scarred hands gripping my hips, rolling me against—

Sword brandished, I lunged at him, striking in quick succession, desperate to dispel the desire, to exhaust myself until my body stopped feeling so awake . Noble chuckled like he didn’t quite believe my viciousness, which only spurred me on, raining blow after blow upon his sword.

“Pause!” Oderin ordered.

I stopped, weapon still aloft, panting.

Noble appeared out of breath, too. Sweat slicked his chest; a single bead slid between the ridges of his abdomen, and I glanced away before I saw it reach his waistband.

Oderin came over to me, gripped my elbow, and shifted it into a different angle. I felt my back muscles turn on, my grip become steadier. “Feel that?”

With my eyes still trained on Noble, I felt everything .

“Yes,” I said.

Oderin glanced over his shoulder at Noble, and I saw the flash of appreciation in his eyes, too. At least I wasn’t the only one embarrassingly bewitched by Noble’s physique.

“If you’re concerned that I’d tell my sister about an affair between her apprentices,” Oderin whispered, “I assure you, I wouldn’t.”

“There’s nothing to tell. ”

The Major chuckled, then stepped out of the circle, allowing Noble and I to begin again.

This time, Oderin had us swap blocks and blows back and forth.

I kept my elbow more aligned, and I did feel more powerful.

A delicious soreness began to radiate out through my shoulder blade and arm, the exertion taking over.

I became faster and more focused, eliciting more calls of encouragement from Oderin on the sidelines.

“You look good with a blade,” Noble panted, swinging his dull sword with a flourish.

“Show-off,” I replied.

“I’m serious,” he said, speaking between strikes. “Your brow furrows, and your lips press into a pout, and you’re flushed”—his voice went hoarse on that last word, as if it took his breath away—“and yet your eyes glitter like you enjoy taking your frustration out in this way.”

“Stop”—I swung at him—“talking.”

“Why? Is it making you angry?” he taunted, but I realized something: I wasn’t the only one distracted by how my opponent looked.

As he spoke, he wasn’t looking at my face or even my weapon—he was looking at my sternum, where I felt a prickle of heat underneath my skin.

That must’ve been the flush he was going on about.

I shuffled closer, enduring the clamor of his sword against mine, hefting my blade a little higher, biding my time.

“It’s not just the exertion,” he went on. “You get flushed when you’re angry, too. And the other night, I noticed you also get flushed when you’re—”

With a groan, I thrusted my sword out. As I’d hoped, I caught him by surprise, nicking him on the forearm.

“Well done, Hattie!” Oderin called, clapping his hands.

I beamed, pride swelling in my chest. Noble had been distracted—halfhearted, even—but I’d still managed to land a blow on an incredibly well-practiced fighter. And knowing that I hadn’t truly hurt him—it was barely a scratch—I felt only accomplishment as I lowered my weapon.

“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?” I taunted.

The adrenaline of our sparring session was beginning to fade, my muscles turning to jelly.

I let the tip of my sword fall to the ground with a tap , waiting for Noble’s sassy rebuke, his witty retort— Fates , even a withering glance—but he was too busy staring at his arm.

Blood was beading where I’d slashed his skin, except—

I blinked. Took one step closer. Narrowed my eyes to focus.

—his blood wasn’t red.

It was black .

Oderin was approaching us from the sidelines, still clapping amusedly.

The sound had Noble clamping a palm over the small cut.

Green eyes found mine, and in them was a fathomless shame I’d only seen one other time: on the night he’d stood in the courtyard of Castle Wynhaim, beneath the weeping willow, and had watched the nondescript carriage take me away.

That was the same night I’d learned it was his fault the rumors about my father had spread, escalating into an attempt on my life. His fault I had to go into hiding. I’d never found it in myself to be angry with him, though; even then, I knew Noble would never willfully hurt me.

Noble dropped his blade and stormed off, his injured arm still clutched in his opposite hand.

“How badly did you wound him?” Oderin asked, sidling up beside me while we watched Noble go. “Didn’t look that deep from outside the ring.”

“I think it was worse than it looked,” I mumbled. “I should apologize.”

I spared Oderin only a glance before I dropped my own weapon on the ground and hurried after Noble .

The sunlight was bright, washing out the pale dirt of the training yard.

Maybe that’s why his blood had looked so dark, I told myself.

Maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks on me.

I was determined not to panic, not yet, but I broke into a run as I passed through a narrow alley between barracks and out into a part of Castle Might I’d never been before: the bailey.

There was a huge statue in its center—a seven-foot-high knight on bended knee, holding the hilt of a massive sword that was speared into the ground. Noble was up ahead, still holding his arm, fleeing .

“Noble!” I called after him. “Noble, wait!”

He turned, and the look of absolute humiliation on his face—it crushed me.

I stopped beside the statue. “Let’s talk,” I offered. “Please?”

He hesitated only a moment, then turned his back on me, disappearing through the barbican gate, back out into the hubbub of Fenrir City.

I didn’t go after him this time. I sagged, placing a palm on the smooth base of the statue. My fingertips found writing, and with my mind still reeling, I glanced down, reading the inscription.

Noble the Mighty, the First Order Knight of Fenrir .

It was a statue of Noble’s namesake.

A mirthless laugh quaked my chest. Noble’s parents really set him up for failure, naming him after a legend and not a real person. It made me irrationally angry, heartbroken , that he should grow up with that kind of pressure. To feel constantly like he was falling short.

In spite of what I’d just seen—the implications still not fully permeating my consciousness just yet—an overwhelming sense of protectiveness swept over me. I didn’t care about rules, or duty, or assassins, or even black monster blood. Cursed blood .

I cared only for the boy I’d met when I was just eleven years old, a boy already sagging under the weight of expectation. That sense of protectiveness roused me—set me on a path not after Noble, but after answers.

My Noble , that protective part of me said. Mine .