Page 23

Summer

“ I f only Zylah were here,” I say, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “She’s got jujitsu training and zero hesitation about turning anything into a weapon.”

“I don’t know what jujitsu means, but this sword isn’t very long,” says Wyn, flipping the hilt against his palm, sending the blade into three lazy spins before catching it with a smirk.

He wraps my fingers around the hilt. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?

A few basic strikes is all that’s needed to relieve someone of their entrails, Summer. ”

With swift movements, he swings his own weapon through the air in a series of crisscrossed flourishes, slicing up the space between us.

My throat clicks as I swallow. “I won’t be any good at this.”

“You might be surprised. Give it a go.”

“Our dinner’s getting cold.”

“I wrapped it in leaves and kept it near the coals. It’ll still be there when we’re done. ”

“You’re wounded,” I say, pointing at his arm. “You were bleeding at the river.”

“Nope. Magic healed it. Stop stalling.”

The sword feels wrong in my hand, like someone swapped my pruning shears for a chainsaw and I’m about to destroy my favorite client’s prized rose bushes.

Wyn stands a few paces away, his own blade balanced effortlessly in his hand, stance wide, breathing controlled. I’d find the composure impressive if that smile didn’t look quite so smug around the edges.

“Hold it tighter or you’ll be disarmed before you can strike a blow,” he instructs, his lips quirking into a full-blown grin. “Now swing at me.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” I ask, gripping it harder, anyway.

“Try the tree trunk, then,” he says, nodding at a gnarled pine with bark like cracked, dried clay.

The leather-wrapped hilt digs into my palm, and a mix of embarrassment and anger rises up my throat. I’m not fond of doing anything I’m bad at in front of an audience. Especially an audience that looks like Wyn.

When I got dumped back into my real life after my lost year, I didn’t just feel mentally broken and out of place.

I felt alien—different from every other student in my senior year.

Plus, most of my classmates suspected I’d killed my parents during a psychotic episode.

So, yeah, feeling inferior and judged by others remains a major sore point for me.

But Wyn, who used to be a wolf and is now apparently a fae prince, told me to swing—so I do, bringing the blade up, then down in what I hope will be a clean arc. But even before it connects with the target, I know I’ve messed up .

My stance is too stiff, my wrists locked, and instead of slicing through the air, the sword wobbles, jarring in my grip. The impact sends a shock wave up to my shoulders, and I nearly lose my hold on it. I stagger back, heart hammering, fingers scrambling to keep control.

From the side, Wyn sighs loudly. Too loudly.

“Okay,” he says, crossing his arms. “That was a… choice.”

Ever the rebellious one, I pretend to inspect the blade. “Sure it wasn’t great, but maybe you magicked me up a defective weapon,” I tease, even though I wouldn’t know a well-crafted blade from one made by a drunken blacksmith with a grudge.

Wyn steps closer to me, his boots crunching the dry grass. The river shimmers behind him, all blue-green tranquility, a stark contrast to the frustration building inside me.

“It’s a perfectly balanced blade, Summer, and light enough for you to wield. The issue isn’t the sword.”

“So you’re saying I’m the problem?”

“No, you said you wouldn’t be any good at this. Remember?” His grin widens, and my heart stutters. “If you’ve already convinced yourself you can’t do something, then what chance will you have? Why not declare you’ll be brilliant instead? That’s called magic.”

“Why am I even bothering?” I mutter, glaring at a willow tree like it personally offended me. “As long as you’re with me, I’ll never need to use a weapon, which honestly, is a relief.”

His expression softens, and he steps even closer, fingers brushing a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “We could get separated. And if that happens… you need to be ready. Faery isn’t safe. Not for you. Please, Summer, try again. I need you alive. ”

The fear in his voice steals my breath, and before I can think of a comeback, he moves behind me. The metal on his jacket brushes my shoulder blades as he adjusts my grip, his body heat weakening my knees.

“Relax your wrists,” he murmurs. “Let the weight of the sword guide you.”

I try to focus on his instructions, but his closeness makes it impossible. The warmth of his breath grazes my ear, and my pulse races like I’ve run up and down the stairs of Gravenshade Hall five times without stopping—with my mother’s ghost on my tail.

“Summer,” he says, amusement creeping into his tone. “You’re holding it like a broomstick. It’s a sword. Try again.”

“If you weren’t breathing down my neck, maybe I could concentrate.”

“Breathing down your neck, huh?” His voice dips, teasing. I hate the heat that simmers in my belly… then sinks lower. And lower .

He claims it’s too risky to touch me, but my hormones need a second opinion. I’m so turned on, it’s embarrassing. What the hell is wrong with me?

I whirl around and face him, my sword dragging behind me. “Are you going to teach me how to use this thing or just make jokes and criticize?”

His grin falters, replaced by something sharper and hungrier, which doesn’t make sense given how unhinged I’m behaving. For a moment, neither of us moves. The world around us—the river, the trees, the gentle breeze—it all fades to nothing.

Then he steps back, breaking the tension with a wry smile. “Lesson two: don’t let your opponent distract you. Let’s try again.”

I grip the sword and raise it, ignoring the way my hands tremble. “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to spar with a walking thirst trap.”

His chuckle is warm, as he replies, “According to the ladies of Talamh Cúig, I was born distracting.”

“No need to show off,” I mutter. “Wait… do you actually know what a thirst trap is?”

He frowns. “Of course. A mortal device for catching parched prey.”

“Oh my god. No. How could I possibly be sparring with one of those?”

He shrugs. “Mortal ways are indeed baffling.”

Wyn retreats, the grin still dancing on his lips as he lifts his sword. “All right. Lesson three: the basic thrust. Step forward, keep your blade straight, and aim for your opponent’s centerline. Controlled. Precise. No wild swings.”

“Who knew wild swings were bad,” I mutter, adjusting my stance. “They’ve served me well so far in life.”

“They’re not exactly bad, just sloppy,” he corrects, circling me slowly, his eyes sharp and assessing. “And they can get you killed. Try a thrust.”

Thrust . I hate it when he says that word. I mean, it should be illegal to utter it when you look like him.

I take a step forward and jab the blade out, but it feels awkward, like my arms have turned into disobedient strands of spaghetti. The sword wobbles in my grip .

Wyn rubs a hand over his jaw. “Good effort,” he says, though the clear amusement in his voice suggests otherwise. He moves to my side and adjusts my shoulders. “Keep your weight balanced. Stop aiming for the sky. I’m not as tall as a gray man.”

“A what?”

“You know the gray men? The fear liath mòr? Towering shadows from the mountains that feed on their victim’s dread and confusion.”

“Err, no. None of them inhabit any mountains near Lake Grenlynn, thankfully.” I wonder briefly if they’re related to the gray ladies my mom’s always banging on about.

“Good. Aim lower and push out from your core.”

My core ? Why did he have to say that? Makes me think of… never mind.

“Can you hear my thoughts right now?”

He freezes. “No. Feel free to share them.”

“Definitely not. I’m good.”

I try again, this time with more focus. The tip of the blade slices forward, steady and straight, and a bolt of pride flickers through me.

“Better,” Wyn says, circling back to face me. He swings his own sword, his movements sure and fluid. “Now parry. When I thrust, angle your blade to deflect. Small movements. Don’t over commit.”

I swallow hard. “Right. I’m better at this if I think about something else. Tell me how magic works in this realm.”

“We’re in Faery. You may as well ask how gravity operates in your world. ”

“If you can explain that, too, I’d be grateful,” I say. “In science class, I mostly stared at the back of Brice Albright’s golden waves instead of bothering to learn anything.”

“Brice Albright.” Wyn repeats the name of my high school crush like he’s committing it to memory. “Does he live in Lake Grenlynn?”

“Hasn’t for a long time.”

“Good. Did this Brice person ever hurt you?”

“Only my pride by ignoring me.”

A grin flickers at the edge of Wyn’s mouth, then he lunges, his sword tip aimed at my chest. I smack the blade away with zero skill or finesse, my attention on his lips curving as he takes a breath to speak.

“Elemental magic follows the natural rules and principles that sustain life and, like in the Earth Realm, keep us from tumbling into the blackness of the multiverse. Magic is the energy that weaves through air, water, fire, earth, and ether. A creator. An unmaker. Life and death and everything in between.”

The gleam in his eyes tells me that he’s enjoying this, lecturing me while prancing about with his sword.

He strikes again, quick but measured, and I move to block. The force of his blade sends a jolt up my arm, but I manage to hold steady. In other words, I don’t drop my weapon.

“Good,” he says, stepping to the side. “Now, again. Watch your footwork this time.”

We fall into a rhythm, moving in a slow dance around each other.

He thrusts; I parry. I lunge forward; he sidesteps.

Each motion flows into the next, and for a moment, I forget my frustration and focus entirely on the movements.

The weight of the sword, the shifting of my feet, the subtle pressure of his blade against mine.

“Thrust, parry, sidestep,” he says, his voice calm as he moves smoothly over the grass. “Keep your blade up. Don’t leave yourself open.”

“How are the realms connected?” I ask. “Are we literally on different physical planes, hundreds of thousands of miles apart?”

“No, the realms lie stacked on top of each other—side by side, twisting and sliding. Melded together, and separated only by the thoughts and ideas of their inhabitants. We’d feel our breath whispering over each other if we were brave enough to dissolve the veils in our minds—all the rules and reasons we construct in order to feel safe living in the chaos of infinite realities. ”

Wow, that’s quite the revelation.

Stalking around me, sword raised, ready to strike, his eyes fix on mine too deeply. The double and triple meaning of his words collide and obscure his purpose and intentions. How many mentions of twisting and sliding and melding can a girl take before combusting?

Is he hoping to leave my skin raw and tingling? Burning for him to touch me?

If so, it’s definitely working.

Before long, we’ve moved away from the water and closer to the edge of the woods, and I’m starting to feel a little more confident—until Wyn stops playing around.

His strikes come faster, harder, and I barely manage to keep up, my arms burning with the effort .

“ Wyn ,” I gasp, blocking a particularly forceful thrust. “Are you trying to kill me here?”

“Just making sure you’re paying attention,” he says, smirking like he’s going for gold in the Smuggest of Smug Bastard Olympics.

“Helpful.”

Despite my grumbling, I can’t deny the thrill coursing through me. The way we move together, the way his eyes never leave mine. It feels dangerous, and I don’t mean in the I-might-get-physically-injured way.

After a while he lowers his sword and steps back. “That’ll have to do. You’re not improving anymore. But you weren’t too bad for your first time. Just don’t take on any dangerous fae creatures until you get some more practice.”

I roll my eyes, panting as I let my own blade drop. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Is that your usual method of teaching? Sexual innuendos and half-veiled insults?”

“Sex… what ?”

I stifle a laugh. From his clenched fists and the dark blush on his cheeks, it’s clear he knows exactly what that word means.

He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that makes my chest tighten. “Don’t worry. You’ll be able to keep yourself safe with a blade soon, Summer. I’ll make sure of it.”

“How about some constructive feedback? Something to mull over and improve on,” I say, not really wanting any further sword instruction. But also not ready for his focused attention to leave me. I need to be near him for a little longer. Actually, a lot longer.

Wyn obliges and moves close, his hand now resting on mine over the sword hilt. His voice is a low rumble when he says, “Your grip is fine, but your footwork’s still off. Step wider.”

I try to focus on his words, but it’s impossible with the heat of his body searing into mine.

The sharp, metallic smell of the blade in my hands blends with the scent of leather and pine that clings to his skin. His thumb brushes my knuckles as he adjusts my hold, and my pulse stutters.

Is he trying to drive me insane?