Page 10

CHAPTER EIGHT

W hen Tav returned to the room, the fire had burned low—more glow than flame now, casting a soft orange wash across the wooden floorboards and the modest furnishings. The hearth light flickered gently over Agnes's back as she stood in the middle of the room, her posture tense and oddly… determined.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He stopped in the doorway, lips twitching upward as he took in the sight of her—feet spaced apart, one arm awkwardly bent, the other jabbing forward with her dagger clutched tightly in her fist. She shifted into another stance, this one even more preposterous than the last, her brow furrowed, lips drawn into a thin line of concentration.

Her elbow was too high, her grip too tight.

Gods above, what is she daeing?

Agnes whirled around, dagger still raised, cheeks already flushing a brilliant pink. A soft chuckle escaped him before he could stop it.

"How long have ye been standing there?"

"Long enough tae fear fer the life o’ that poor chair," Tav said, nodding toward the wooden piece she'd just jabbed at.

Agnes straightened, lowering the dagger slightly but not sheathing it. Her chin lifted in defiance, though the color in her face deepened. "I was practicing."

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Practicing what, exactly? Dying dramatically?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Fighting. Nae all o’ us had the luck tae be trained by mystical sword masters."

"Ah. Aye. And ye’ve decided tae remedy that by performing a solo assassination on innocent furniture."

Agnes huffed and rolled her eyes, clearly regretting every second of this interaction. "Ye laugh now, but I’d like tae see yer face when ye’re on the wrong end o’ me dagger."

Tav’s grin widened. He dropped his pack to the floor and leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, observing her. “That would indeed be a sight, but let’s nae pretend it’s likely. There’s nay world in which ye could successfully stab me, Agnes.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

"God, nay. It's a truth. Painful as it may be.

" His tone was teasing, but there was a glint in her eye now that showed him she was serious. He watched as she squared her shoulders again, this time with a bit more intention. The dagger was still in her hand, and for all her inexperience, there was something commendable about her stubbornness. She wasn’t about to be laughed off.

“I suppose ye think ye’re invincible,” she muttered, stepping toward him. "But even gods can bleed."

“Oh? And ye’d be the one tae draw that blood?” he arched an eyebrow in amusement.

Her voice was lower now. “Ye willnae ken unless ye let me try.”

That caught him. Tav pushed off the wall, folding the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. She didn’t back away. Not even an inch. Brave little thing.

“All right then,” he said softly. “Let’s see what ye’ve got.”

She blinked up at him. There was a fleeting moment where he could see her reconsidering. But then she nodded. “Try nae tae cry when I bruise yer ego.”

He chuckled, pulling a spare dagger from his belt. “By all means, I welcome it.”

The first clash was clumsy. Agnes lunged, and Tav sidestepped easily, tapping the back of her knee with the flat of his blade. She stumbled, caught herself, and glared at him.

“Yer footing,” he said. “It’s like watching a drunk goat.”

“That’s nae a real thing.”

“It is now.”

Agnes growled and came at him again. She was faster this time, but she still telegraphed her movement. Tav blocked the attack with ease, deflecting her dagger with his own before stepping in and lightly tapping her shoulder. “Dead again.”

She huffed in frustration, spun back, and reset.

What began as a light spar escalated quickly.

Agnes wouldn’t give up. Each time she lunged, Tav corrected her stance.

But the more she fought back, the more he noticed the sweat forming at her temple, the flush deepening in her cheeks, the quick, shallow breaths she tried to conceal.

Not from exhaustion. No, this was something else.

He noticed how her gaze flicked over his mouth sometimes. How she bit her lip when he stepped too close. The way her dress clung to her back. The delicate curve of her neck. The little shudder in her chest each time he touched her to correct her form.

And still she kept going.

“Ye’re pushing too hard with yer wrist,” he said finally, stepping behind her. He reached out, curling his hand gently around hers. “Here—calm yerself.”

She stiffened beneath his touch. Tav was painfully aware of how close they were now. He could feel the warmth of her body, the scent of her skin—something soft and clean, like lilac and parchment. His fingers adjusted to hers, guiding the dagger to the right angle.

Agnes didn’t speak. Her breath caught.

"Ye keep locking yer elbow," Tav murmured, unable to stop himself. “It makes ye easier tae disarm.”

She let out a shaky breath, but didn’t move away. “Ye’re daeing this on purpose.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Getting close. Distracting me.”

“Am I distracting?”

She didn’t answer. But her silence spoke volumes.

And then Tav stepped around her and flicked the dagger out of her hand. She gasped and reached for it, but he caught her wrist mid-motion and twisted gently, locking it.

She was only inches away now. Her chest rose and fell quickly, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.

Her skin was warm beneath his fingers. Tav didn’t move, although he knew he should have.

Every part of him screamed to pull back.

To say something clever and retreat to the safety of banter. But he didn’t.

Agnes stared up at him, and for a moment, the air between them was molten. No words. No jokes. Just heat and silence and the thrum of something neither of them had named. Then she pulled her wrist free, stumbling back a step.

“I—I yield,” she said quickly, avoiding his gaze as she knelt to pick up her dagger.

Tav didn’t move. He just watched her, jaw tight, thoughts reeling. He hadn’t meant for it to get that intense. Hadn’t meant to touch her like that. But gods—he had, hadn’t he?

She sheathed the dagger with shaking fingers, brushing her skirts as if to occupy her hands.

“Ye’ve… improved,” he said finally.

Agnes glanced up, eyes still wide. “Ye’re a terrible liar.”

“Nae lying.” Tav ran a hand through his hair and stepped toward the bed.

They sat down by the fire and drank some of the water he had bought to quench their thirst. They followed it with some dried meat, for their bones were too weary do go down for supper. When they were done Tav stood up.

“Ye take the bed,” he said, taking off his boots.

Agnes blinked from where she stood near the hearth.

“What?”

He looked up, met her eyes. “Ye heard me,” he crouched near the hearth, rolling out his bedroll on the floor. “I’ll sleep down here.”

Her lips parted, brows pulling slightly. “But ye’ve had a longer day than I have. Ye dinnae have tae dae that. We could just?—”

“We’ll be on the road at dawn, and I dinnae ken when ye’ll next sleep in a real bed. Could be days,” Tav replied, his tone firm but not unkind.

He stepped closer, the worn wooden floor creaking under his boots. “Ye take it, Agnes. I’ll be fine on the floor.”

She hesitated, clearly torn, before giving a reluctant nod. “All right. But if ye wake up with a sore back, that’s on ye.”

“I’ll live.” He flashed her a quick smile, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve slept on worse. Ask me about that time with the goat pen in Caldrith someday.”

A flicker of amusement passed through her expression, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. They were still keyed up, both of them—fresh from sparring, from all that close contact, from pretending it hadn’t affected them when it clearly had.

He was anything but fine. His entire body was a storm of sensation. Every brush of air over his skin made him remember the heat of her against him earlier. His body hadn’t forgotten. It ached now. A steady, low pulse of frustration and want knotted low in his stomach, insistent and merciless.

Tav turned to his pack, digging through for a clean shirt and something comfortable to sleep in. The room was small, not exactly the kind of place with a dressing screen or a separate room. He froze slightly as the realization sank in.

Shit.

He heard the shift of fabric behind him. Agnes was fidgeting, perhaps reaching the same conclusion. Her voice came next, laced with tension.

“Um… then… where dae ye want tae change?” her voice was trembling.

Tav looked around at the room they were both occupying and gave a slow blink. “I mean… here, I guess.”

“Right. Aye. O’ course.” A beat. “Should we—uh—take turns?”

His mouth twitched. “Unless ye want tae change in front o’ me.”

Silence.

He immediately regretted the joke. She turned bright red, gaze flicking down. “I—well—nay—I just meant?—”

“I’m joking,” Tav said quickly, raising a hand. “We’ll take turns. I’ll turn around. Ye go first.”

“Aye,” she said faintly. “Thank ye.”

He pivoted to face the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staring very intently at the rough grain of the timber. “Ye have me word. Nay turning around until ye say so.”

Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric.

The metallic clink of a buckle being unfastened.

Tav shut his eyes and pressed his lips together, willing his thoughts into something, anything less dangerous.

But his imagination betrayed him. Her silhouette was already burned into his mind.

He could still see how she’d looked in the firelight while training, breathless and flushed, skin dewed with sweat.

Now he couldn’t stop wondering how much more stunning she might be without the layers.

How she looked with her back bared, that long braid unravelling over her shoulder.

His imagination was doing far too much. He tried to focus on the wall, counting the knots in the wood, reciting old field codes in his head.

But it didn’t help. Not when he could so clearly imagine her lifting that dress, revealing smooth skin beneath.

Another soft rustle. Then a quiet, breathy curse.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Agnes cursing was rare. But hearing it now, mumbled under her breath as she fumbled with something, just about did him in.

She sounded… flustered. Which only made things worse.

Tav shifted his stance, forcing himself to focus on the wall again. He’d faced down blade-swinging mercenaries with steadier nerves than he had right now.

Finally, her voice broke through the tension. “I’m ready. Ye can turn around now.”

He did, carefully.

She was already under the blanket, sitting up against the headboard, hair unbound and a little wild. She wore a linen shift slightly too large for her, and though it covered everything important, it didn’t do much to hide the curve of her breasts underneath or the softness of her bare arms.

She clutched the blanket closely like it might shield her from his eyes, cheeks burning red.

“Ye’re up,” she said quickly. “I’ll turn around.”

He nodded once. He exhaled hard as soon as her eyes were off him, dragging a hand through his hair.

This was absurd. He was not a boy anymore.

He’d seen a thousand battlefields, out-bluffed smugglers twice his size, and talked himself out of a gallows noose once—but apparently, the sight of Agnes in a damn nightshirt had him undone.

He pulled his tunic over his head and let it fall to the floor, following with his undershirt, each movement deliberate.

He could feel the heat of her gaze on his back, even if she wasn’t admitting she was looking.

He undid his belt, dropped his trousers, and stepped out of them quickly.

He didn’t usually bother with a shirt when it was warm enough. But tonight… tonight he would.

Still facing the wall, he called over his shoulder, “All done.”

He turned and crossed the room to the blanket on the hardwood floor. He knelt and laid it out by the fire, situating himself close enough to keep warm, far enough to give her space.

When he finally lay down, back pressed against the hard floor and eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling, his body ached in places he hadn’t expected.

The scent of her still clung to him, stubborn as a brand.

Soap, sharp and clean. Woodsmoke from the hearth.

And beneath it, something softer, somethinghers.

This is maddening.

Every time he closed his eyes, the images came unbidden—the way the blanket had draped over her curves as she’d turned away from him, the way the firelight had gilded the slope of her shoulder.

But worse were the memories from earlier, when her body had pressed against his as he’d adjusted her stance, her breath hitching when his hand had lingered a second too long on her wrist.

From the bed, she turned over. The creak of the mattress was loud in the quiet.

He didn’t look. He didn’t dare.

Instead, he said, voice low and strained, “Try tae get some rest.”

“Mm,” came her muffled reply. “Ye too.”

“I’ll try.”