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It was cold the following night when Evrardin insisted they begin their training again.

The chill, despite the season, made Mara’s chest clench with something similar to dread. “It’s too cold to go in the gardens,” she whined.

Evrardin looked at her, annoyed. “It's summer,” he said as if that suddenly made the dropping temperature bearable.

“And yet my limbs may fall off from frostbite.”

She swore she almost saw his lips quirk up. “Coming from a lady of the south? Sacrilege.”

“Well, I thought it to be warm in Kairth. I didn’t bring my winter furs.”

“They haven’t stocked your wardrobe with enough options?”

Technically, her wardrobe was overflowing with gifted attire, plenty of them suitable for this weather. “You know,” she began, her voice lilted in condescension, “as insufferable as I usually am, imagine how dreadful I’ll be when I’m freezing and uncomfortable.”

Evrardin glared at her for a moment before saying, “Fine.”

She expected more of a fight but was satisfied just the same to be getting out of the crisp dusk air.

They arrived at a wooden door down several confusing hallways. Evrardin pushed the door open, no guards in sight.

“Where are we?”

She stepped into the room and immediately knew the answer to her question. They were in Evrardin’s chambers. Something of a blush rose to her olive cheeks and she bit at her bottom lip. The room smelt of him: summer mint leaves, smoke, and a little like burnt fire whiskey.

“I take it this is your room,” she said, hands behind her back as she strolled the perimeter, appraising all his things.

“How’d you figure?” he asked wryly.

Mara studied the barren walls, the few weapons he had were stacked on a birch wood desk. There was no window—which Mara thought archaic—making it feel like a prison cell. The room was messy, but not in a way that would make you assume a young boy resided here, but rather, someone who lived the same way their chaotic mind functioned.

“Hm, that’s odd,” she mumbled to herself as she glanced at the bed and then his various garments on the floor.

Evrardin took the bait. “What is?”

Mara hummed, then clicked her tongue before strolling back to Evrardin who had been watching her the entire time she perused his quarters. “Nothing. It’s just, someone of your bravado,” she said mockingly, “ I'd have expected women’s clothes to be strewn about the room. Pray tell, is it difficult picking up barmaids when your communication skills rely solely on a series of grunts and glares?”

Evrardin’s jaw grew taut. “Not at all, Princess. In fact, I think they’re rather fond of my grunts. I just have the mind to keep my escapades beyond the castle’s walls, to not make jealous fools of the married noblewomen.”

“And you spend a lot of your time beyond the castle? In town, I imagine?” she tried to add in, curious where he went off to when he left Kairth.

“Why so interested in my excursions?” He raised a brow at her, his visage more expressive whenever they went on their teasing romps. “Were you hoping to meet me there?” he jested, a sly grin forming on his lips.

Mara’s eyes widened briefly before she steadied herself. “And I suppose you’d like that, Captain. To tear off the dress of a princess instead of the usual cheap harlots you pay.”

Evrardin’s fist clenched as he took a step closer to her, slouching over her slightly. “Maybe I would.”

She averted her eyes, almost choking at his words. She tried to shift the conversation. “A bit rash to take me here, don’t you think? If the prince finds out…” Her gaze met Evrardin’s, her eyes more worry-ridden than earlier.

He ran a hand through his unruly hair as he created distance between them, the heavy aura that seemed to close in on her when he got so close slowly dissipated. “He won’t. He doesn’t come down here. Only place I could think of that I knew he’d never visit.”

She nodded and took a few more awkward steps around his room before facing him several feet away, awaiting instruction.

“You going to undress?” he asked.

Mara smirked. “What a distasteful question to ask a princess.”

“You seem to be keen to your title today, hm, Princess ,” he said, drawing emphasis on his last word.

“Yes, well,” she shifted on her feet. “It’s the last stretch I can use it before it becomes something else entirely. Suppose I’m getting my fix.”

“You realize you’re not to become queen after marrying the prince.”

“No. Not yet. But I imagine it’ll be sooner than I’d like.” She studied him, waiting for his features to give way to something—anything—to tell her she was on the right track with Acastus’ plans.

Evrardin’s eyes dragged over her, his gaze lingering before removing his armor and setting it on a ragged table behind him. Mara watched, almost entranced by the wide expanse of his back as he stripped down to just his linen trousers and tunic.

“I,” she cleared her throat, “thought it best to wear my usual attire. That’s what I’m most likely to be wearing should anyone actually attack me.” Mara’s hands clenched, attempting to keep her burned hand—the hand turning black—closed, shielding it from Evrardin.

Mara thought of her wedding day that was rapidly approaching. About how Acastus might attack her if she didn’t cooperate. Picturing Acastus forcing her, putting his hands on her, making an uncontrollable shiver of fear rake up her spine. But as she looked back at Evrardin, the image slipped away—a fleeting thought.

Evrardin readied his stance, gesturing his head at Mara to do the same. She dug her dagger out of her skirts, then, without much warning or thought, he darted at her in one swift stride. Mara squealed as his hands wrapped around her waist, his hand sliding up to her neck.

“Almost too easy,” he scoffed.

Mara shimmied herself out of his grip. “You didn’t tell me we were starting!”

“I told you—your attacker won’t be giving you a fair warning. You expect them to send you a letter in preparation?”

Mara’s lips formed a tight line and she bit her cheek. “Do you really think they might? A two-day notice would be most convenient now that you mention it.” She pursed her lips, her dagger moving with her gesturing hands.

He fixed his posture, then came at her again. This time, Mara was able to swerve out of his way, but his hand still managed to hook onto her midsection. He immediately dropped his hands, not wanting to waste time—if he could get a solid grip on her, it was pretty much set in stone that he would win.

Time and time again they recounted back to their original stances before going at it again. Mara was losing her breath, but she continued, not wanting to give Evrardin any satisfaction.

Mara stumbled out of Evrardin’s arms, catching herself on the oak desk in his room. “Shit,” she groaned.

Evrardin gave a mirthful chuckle as he adjusted the sleeves of his tunic. Mara caught her breath, glancing at his desk as she used it to hold herself up. She perused a few random tomes. Most of them were about weaponry and she wanted to scoff—of course that's what he would be reading. But as she was about to turn back around, her sight snagged on something of interest. Hidden, stuffed into a book on the far back of the shelving, was a folded piece of paper. What caught her eye, however, was her name scribbled in scratchy ink. Just her first name—not even the full length of it, but simply Mara .

Her heart raced as she tried to pry her eyes away from the lettering. Her fingers itched to reach out and take the paper, unfolding it to read what was written in secrecy, but as she did, the blackness on her fingertips stopped her. The note had to have been from Azor, who else would be writing her letters? Her chest rose in fury; he intercepted a letter meant for her, her eyes growing dark in intolerance. Evrardin wasn’t to be trusted.

When she turned around, Evrardin’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair falling in tendrils around his face, curling slightly from his sweat, she lost all nerve to ask him about it. She was fine teasing and arguing with him, but to mention something with her name on it felt too personal. It would feel too real, too intimate, even if it was meant for her. She clawed in her skin, desperate to know why he would keep a letter from her, but she swallowed her words and ground her teeth together.

She forced it to fall to the back of her mind.

“Try and drop all of your weight into my hold. It will throw the attacker off—especially if they have their hands around your neck”—his eyes flashed to the marks on her throat—“and you’ll be able to fall to the floor. Then slip around them and run.”

“Run?”

He nodded.

“What if they chase after me?”

“Mara,” he sighed, as if this conversation was agonizing for him. “No matter how much we practice, you won’t be able to best a grown man. This is your first real taste of combat. It would take years to bring you to speed. Your only means of survival is to run the second you get free.”

“But what if they catch me?” she whined again.

“Don’t.” His words were dark as he spoke. “Don’t let them catch you.”

Her lips parted as she tried to steady her breathing. Then she nodded.

“Right,” he said, orienting himself. He waited for Mara to ready, then he took the one long step to reach her and hooked his hand around her midsection. He spun her so her back was pressed to his front, his hands wrapped around her, one gliding across her neck. She lost her breath momentarily. She stood flush against him, and she could feel his heartbeat. She prayed he couldn’t feel hers.

Evrardin’s voice was a warm whisper in her ear, and she struggled to stay balanced when he spoke, raising gooseflesh along her neck. “Now, drop your weight.”

She gasped silently, her hand finding the one hugging her around the waist, the other still clutching her dagger. Her eyes fluttered when he whispered her name, trying to get her to focus. “Mara, drop your weight,” he said again, but his words trailed off, as if he, too, was losing his composure.

The sweat along Mara’s chest made her dress cling to her and it pressed to her skin with every shallow breath she stole. She remembered how last time this position ended, abrupt and of discomfort, so she wondered why he would do it again so readily. Her chest rose in rapid repetitions.

“ Liten rev ,” he grumbled.

His hold on her relaxed slightly as she spun to face him, his hand resting on the low of her waist and the back of her neck. She watched his throat as he swallowed, gazing at her, her body melded with his, his hands slowly dropping lower and gripping her dress by the waist.

She breathed his name in return and his eyes shadowed. She felt her heart race when he looked at her lips for the briefest of seconds before locking eyes with her again.

“I…uhm…” she dragged, trying to gather the will to push him away. She didn’t want this. She didn’t even like him. Well, that was no longer true. It might have started as a strong distaste, but she had grown used to his appearance—she might even say she grew to find comfort in his prickly presence.

She had thought back to that night in the library multiple times now, against her better judgment, and every time it made her cheeks redden. And when he had carried her to the sea, his hands carefully holding her afloat in the ebbing water, promising not to let go, something kindled between them. She had pushed it down, back where it came from, stomping it out while she cursed, refusing to acknowledge it might have been a romantic inclination that was drawing her to him.

The way Evrardin was staring at her now, something pulled her closer to him rather than away, just like in the library, all thoughts of her mistrust with him fleeting. His hand slid up her side, leaving a path of fire along her hip before resting it on her cheek. His grip was soft, a striking feeling when she was so used to his roughness. He held her face like he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do: if he was to shake her violently or pull her flush against him. She waited in anticipation, throwing her thoughts to the wind to carry away. She’d put it in his hands. He would decide what would come of their embrace.

All thoughts of Acastus and the wedding and Crowrot and the mysterious letter he was concealing drifted, all she could think about was Evrardin, and it was killing her. She didn't want to be ravaged by his terribly handsome face, but she had never craved someone's touch as desperately as his. And truthfully, if he didn’t kiss her now, she would feel embarrassed, ignominious, and foolish for wanting him when all he’d ever vocally expressed was animosity.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she whispered. Her face and neck crept with a blushing storm, surprising even herself.

“You want me to?” he asked in return.

Her lips parted, somehow breathless as he held her. His thumb moved down to her lips, brushing across her lower one. She didn’t want to be just another notch in his belt. A prize for how weak she could be and how easily he was able to conquer her.

And still, she did what she knew she shouldn’t—she nodded.

She wondered what Evrardin was thinking, if he was laughing at her in his head, but that rumination quickly slipped her mind as he lowered his face slowly, still giving her a chance to halt his movements. Impatient, Mara pushed onto the tips of her toes and connected their lips.

She had kissed boys before, but they were always her age, rushed and inexperienced. She had never truly enjoyed any of those encounters and so she didn’t know what to expect when she desired to kiss Evrardin. But he didn’t kiss like those boys did when she was sixteen, or eighteen, or nineteen. It was different. He was slow as he moved his mouth with hers, taking his time, as if this kiss was its own entity—not just a hasty means to an end. And his short beard tickled her, rough against her face, but somehow pleasurable as she nervously moved her lips to his rhythm.

His left hand squeezed her hip as he pulled her closer, his other hand slipping to the back of her head and weaving through her hair. She dropped the gifted dagger to his floor, her hands finding his tunic, her fingers knotting in the fabric, afraid she might collapse to her knees if she didn’t cling to him.

The warmth surrounding her doubled, everything heating as he stood so close, their bodies melding with one another. She wanted to slide her hands through his hair—the scruffy mess that she always noticed first whenever she saw him. He groaned as her hands trailed his abdomen, her hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his shoulders. Mara couldn’t quite reach his hair, even with Evrardin hunched over.

As if he could read her mind, he backed her up, his arms and lips never parting from hers, until they reached his bed. He turned so he could sit on the edge, wedging Mara between his thighs. With him sitting, she now matched his height, making it easy for her to lace her fingers through his tangled hair. His grip on her tightened when she raked her fingers through his hair.

The scruff along his jaw scratched her as she kissed him, the feeling igniting sparks. Evrardin’s hands rested on her upper thighs while his tongue worked along the edge of her lips before meeting hers. She whined on reflex and he was quick to spin her around, pushing her back onto his bed, one of his knees between her legs, devouring the gasp she let out. Their mouths were messy and rushed.

Evrardin pawed at her skirt, hiking it up until it was balled in his hand, the apex of her thighs exposed beneath him. Their lips parted and Evrardin rested his forehead on hers, both of them panting.

Before either could speak, someone knocked on his bedroom door.

Evrardin looked at the door in annoyance then back at Mara, still sprawled beneath him, breathing heavily. His calloused hand seared an imprint where it rested on her exposed thigh and she was all too aware of what almost just happened. He cleared his throat and stood, gawking at her. Mara pushed herself up and adjusted her dress.

“M’sorry,” he finally said. She wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. For taking advantage of her? For stopping?

She tried to appear calm, unfazed. She couldn’t decide if this interruption was a blessing or a curse.

Evrardin went to the door, his hand jiggling the handle, before turning around and gesturing for Mara to hide. She opened her eyes in realization and quickly tucked herself away on the other side of his bed.

“Lord Cofsi,” Evrardin greeted.

Mara pulled her knees to her chest as she listened.

“Evrardin,” he replied, likely bowing slightly in respect. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

The Lord gave a mirthless chuckle, he almost sounded nervous. “I was hoping to discuss matters surrounding… the state of Kairth.” The Dusk Lord danced around his last words.

“You’ve caught me at a bad time.”

“Right,” Cofsi said as if he should have known better than to surprise the captain with a visit to his chambers. “Tomorrow, then? Say, after breakfast?”

Evrardin grumbled something Mara couldn’t hear and then the door closed.

Mara popped out of her hiding spot and marched around the bed, up to Evrardin. He likely expected her to ask him what that was about—what Lord Cofsi wanted—so he appeared shocked when she asked something far more unnerving. “Do you care for me?”

Evrardin blinked stupidly a few times. “Do I…?”

“Care for me,” she finished straightforwardly. Her hands were on her hips as she demanded an answer, quite a shift from the flustered state he just had her in moments ago.

Mara took his silence and one scornful laugh as answer enough.

Her face glazed over with ice, mirroring how Evrardin usually looked. “I should get back. I don’t want to get caught.”

She hesitated before sidestepping him and leaving his room. He knew she might get lost trying to find her way back, but he never moved his feet to follow after her, and that hurt the most.

He was a coward.