Page 34

SELENE

I stand alone under Orthani’s sky, the moon veiled by drifting clouds.

The estate’s courtyard lies still, torches flickering in sconces along the walls.

My breath comes shallow and tense. Eryx’s words echo in my mind, trailing a hot brand of possibility.

A revolt that severs the council’s power.

A plan to reduce Orthani to smoke and rubble.

A promise of freedom for Ai… if I lend my magic to his cause.

It’s a tempting proposition—and a terrifying one.

I’ve already sown smaller seeds of sabotage, but Eryx demands something bolder.

Rage fueled every word he spoke, desperation layered beneath.

Part of me resonates with that fury. Another part seethes at the notion of dancing to someone else’s tune yet again.

The orchard’s cool air earlier did nothing to calm me.

I can’t sleep, can’t even think straight. I need an outlet.

That’s why I slip from my assigned chamber into the estate’s rear yard, where Vaelith often conducts late-night drills with whichever soldiers volunteer for extra training.

My heart pounds as I approach, unsure if I want him to be here or not.

The idea of clashing with him right now—physically, violently—teases the edge of my pulse, weaving equal parts dread and excitement.

We’ve grown used to these nighttime sessions: me, restless with too many secrets, him, a commander who never sleeps until Orthani’s foes are subdued.

If anyone can match the storm raging inside me, it’s Vaelith.

Torches ring the small training ground. The space is enclosed by high stone walls, offering privacy from the rest of the estate.

Warm arcs of light shimmer on the sand underfoot.

At first, it seems empty, but I catch a flash of movement in the far corner.

My breath hitches. He stands by a rack of practice weapons, wearing his sleeveless black cuirass and simple trousers.

The faint gleam of sweat outlines the muscled lines of his arms and shoulders.

He’s been working out alone, it seems—heavy war staff leaning against the rack, chest rising and falling with each breath.

He notices me instantly. Our eyes meet across the flickering ring of torchlight. That silent exchange brims with tension. “It’s late,” he says, voice low but carrying easily in the hush of the yard. “You should be resting before tomorrow’s infiltration exercise.”

“I’m too wound up,” I admit, moving closer. The sand shifts beneath my boots. “Thought you might want a spar.”

He arches a brow, assessing me. “You look ready to carve a path through a mountain. Something on your mind?”

My mind whirls with Eryx’s proposal, the swirl of treachery that calls me to war. I bury those thoughts behind a wry smile. “Perhaps I just need to let off steam. Are you going to deny me that, Commander?”

He picks up a practice sword from the rack, tossing it to me. I catch it easily, the wooden blade whistling against my palm. The corners of his mouth tilt in a near-smirk. “I doubt I could deny you anything right now if I tried.”

Those words spark a flutter of heat in my stomach.

We’ve danced around these intense glances for days.

I see the taut lines of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw.

He’s on edge too, possibly from Orthani’s burdens or maybe from the same swirling friction we share.

My lips part, a retort on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back, letting the hush settle.

He lifts his own practice sword and beckons me forward. “Fine. Let’s see if a bout can clear your head.”

I grip the sword hilt tight. Without preamble, I lunge.

Our wooden blades meet in a hard crack that reverberates through my arms. The force of it jolts me, but I don’t retreat, pressing forward.

He pivots, deflecting my strike with fluid precision.

Torchlight flickers across his face, revealing a flicker of surprise at my aggression.

I grit my teeth. He doesn’t know what roils inside me—Eryx’s talk of destruction, Zareth’s psionic intrusions, my own guilt over Ai.

I want to channel it all into this fight.

He counters with a lightning-quick slash.

I parry, our blades slamming again, sending vibrations up my wrists.

Sand sprays around our feet as we circle each other, each strike testing the other’s reflexes.

My heart races with exertion and something deeper.

This is more than training; it’s a raw release of pent-up fury.

Vaelith meets me blow for blow, grunts mingling with each impact.

I twist, hooking my foot behind his calf, trying to unbalance him.

He shifts his weight, forcing me to break away.

My pulse thunders. He lunges again, feinting high, then sweeping low.

I barely dodge in time, letting out a breathless snarl.

Our gazes lock, a mutual challenge flaring in the flickering light.

“You’re pushing harder tonight,” he observes in a ragged voice, wooden sword held poised. “What lit this fire under you?”

“Does it matter?” I hiss, driving forward. Our swords lock in a test of strength, pressing hilt to hilt. I see the sheen of sweat on his obsidian skin, the subtle clench of his jaw. My arms shake from the force, but my anger steels me. “Fight me. Don’t ask me questions.”

His eyes narrow. “Fine.” He shoves me back, then lunges with a sharp overhead slash.

I spin aside, letting the blow glance off my blade.

I retaliate with a slash toward his ribs.

He parries neatly, hooking my arm with the practice sword’s cross-guard, forcing me to pivot away again.

My chest heaves, hunger for more fueling every breath.

We engage again, the ring of watchers absent, no one to admire or judge.

This is for us alone. He thrusts, I sidestep, we clash near the center, sweat flying as we both strain.

My mind recedes into an almost feral state—there’s no strategy but pure aggression.

Wood cracks on wood, each collision a jolt to my core.

When he tries a sweeping strike at my legs, I leap, hooking my practice sword behind his, flipping it from his grasp.

It clatters across the sand. Surprise flashes in his eyes, but he reacts instantly, launching forward to grab me before I can finish him.

We crash together, tumbling in the sand, a mass of limbs and ragged breathing.

I snarl, pushing against his chest, trying to wrestle free.

He’s strong, honed by years of Orthani discipline.

My elbow jabs his side. He grunts, refusing to let go.

We roll, dust rising around us. My sword is pinned under my hip, useless now. He grips my wrist, forcing me onto my back. My heart hammers, a fierce rush of adrenaline spiking in my veins. Torchlight flickers across his face, revealing an intensity that’s as much desire as anger.

A guttural sound rips from my throat. I arch my body, hooking a leg around his waist. We are face to face, panting.

The friction of his chest against mine sends shockwaves through me.

A swirl of heat floods my center. This is madness, I think.

We fight like enemies, but an undercurrent of raw, unspoken craving pulses between us.

He tries to pin my arms, breath coming in ragged bursts. “You’re out of control,” he growls.

“Maybe I like it that way,” I snap, twisting under him. My nails clings into his forearm, not enough to draw blood but enough to sting. “You want to tame me? Good luck.”

His eyes burn with equal parts frustration and hunger.

“I never said I want you tame.” He flips me onto my side, chest pressed to my back, his arm locking around my midsection.

My body jolts at the intimate contact. A ragged moan escapes me, unbidden.

I’ve never let a man manhandle me like this, but the friction of his body stirs a molten ache inside me.

We’re both shaking from the brutal exertion, from the swirl of tension we’ve refused to name.

I lash out with my free elbow, catching him in the ribs. He grunts, loosening his grip enough for me to spin around and face him. We kneel in the sand, breathing harshly, faces inches apart. My chest brushes his, each breath forcing contact. A droplet of sweat trickles along my temple.

“I hate that you make me feel this,” I whisper, the confession harsh. “I hate Orthani, hate your discipline, yet I can’t stop coming here.”

His voice is low, laced with a desperation that matches my own. “You think I enjoy losing control every time you speak, every time I see your defiance?” He lifts a hand, as though meaning to force me back down, but it lingers near my shoulder instead, trembling.

We stare at each other, hearts pounding.

Then something snaps. I lunge, fisting the front of his cuirass, yanking his mouth down to mine.

A shock wave tears through me at the contact—hot, fierce.

He groans against my lips, one hand sliding to grip the nape of my neck, the other bracing my waist. Our teeth clash, tongues tangling in a brutal, unrefined kiss.

It’s more violence than sweetness, an explosion of pent-up lust and anger that has no room for niceties.

He crushes me against his chest, the ridges of his armor digging into my skin.

I ignore the discomfort, letting the wild surge of sensation devour me.

My nails scrape his shoulders, seeking any exposed flesh.

The taste of salt and copper saturates my senses.

Torchlight flickers, making our entwined shadows dance on the courtyard’s wall.

We break apart, both gasping. He grips my waist, hoisting me up so our bodies align. I tangle my legs around his hips, refusing to be gentle. Our eyes lock, breath mingling in the sweltering air.

“Raw, violent, cathartic,” a part of me thinks, recalling the swirl of tensions that brought us here.

This is no tender seduction. It’s a savage release we both crave.

He braces me against a nearby post, the rough wood scraping my back.

I hiss, torn between pain and arousal. My nails drag on his arms.

“You can still say no,” he rasps, voice ragged. “I?—”

I cut him off with another fierce kiss, pushing my hips flush with his.

A guttural moan spills from his throat, and I delight in hearing Vaelith—this stoic commander—reduced to near-incoherent desire.

I peel at his cuirass straps, wanting him freed from its constraints.

He fumbles at the fastenings on my leathers, breath jagged.

The chaotic scramble of hands grows desperate, each item of clothing flung aside.

The courtyard’s torchlight casts glimpses of obsidian skin pressed to my golden-olive flesh, sweat-slicked and trembling.

When I think about it, I realize how reckless this is.

Any guard could walk in, any soldier could witness their commander in a frenzy with the purna prisoner.

But we’ve gone too far to stop. Our mouths clash again, the taste of him fusing with my own breath.

My pulse roars in my ears, a savage tide that devours thought.

When we finally tear apart enough to speak, our bodies align, friction thrumming. He utters my name, voice low and pained. “Selene,” as if cursing and worshipping it at once.

I respond by biting down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, a fierce claiming that draws a rough groan from him. “You want me,” I snarl softly. “Admit it.”

He shudders, hips rolling against mine. “I do,” he grits out, “and you hate me for it, don’t you?”

I let a feral smile tug my lips. “I hate that I want you back.” Then I arch my body, hooking my legs around his waist with a savage intensity.

He grips my thighs, driving forward. The pleasure-pain spike sears through me. A ragged cry bursts from my throat, echoing in the deserted courtyard.

The heat cools down after the release, we lie there cuffing each other's faces. Admiring every inch.

We stay like that for a moment before exhaustion claims us both.