When I judge that I am well out of the view of the others, I slip my bow and quiver off my back, then roll my shoulders to loosen the muscles and joints. I have not done anything but ride for nearly two weeks. Moving through my training exercises will not only help keep my skills sharp, but also relieve the pent-up frustration I am feeling.
As I begin the familiar movements, a sense of calm settles over me, as if the exercises themselves pull me back into myself, reminding me of who and what I am. I wonder if the abbess has been informed yet of my absence, and if so, what she has done about it. If nothing else, my current circumstances afford me a most excellent cover, for she would never in a thousand years think to look for me here.
I move on to the more complex set of exercises, the ones that take all my concentration.
“Does that not work better with an opponent?” The deep, gravelly voice pulls me from the sequence, causing me to stumble.
I glance over at Miserere, who watches me, face implacable, arms folded. I reply without thinking. “But I do not wish to hurt any of you.”
Miserere’s mouth twitches, and I hear a guffaw or two of laughter.
“If you need a rock or tree to batter yourself against, he is your man,” Begard says cheerfully, almost as if he knows this from personal experience.
Miserere steps forward. There is no anticipation in his manner, or revulsion, or even resignation. He simply moves, like a boulder that has sprouted legs.
I eye him warily. I meant my words as a jest, not a challenge. However, I will not—cannot—back down. Not with all of them watching. At the very least, maybe when they see my level of skill, they will think twice before crossing me.
Just as I motion Miserere forward, a large, black glove appears on his arm and shoves him aside. “If the lady needs someone to spar with her, I will do it.” Balthazaar looks not at me but at the other men, meeting each one’s gaze and holding it for a long moment. His brows are drawn together in a thunderous ridge, and his mouth is set in a hard, unforgiving line. Unease snakes through me.
It is one thing to bash upon someone like Miserere, whom I have no hope of beating or even hurting. But fighting Balthazaar is far, far different. It feels too . . . intimate.
And then he is standing in front of me, arms relaxed at his sides. “They are all watching.” He speaks quietly, and I cannot tell if that is resignation I hear in his voice or a taunt.
“Well, then, let’s not disappoint them.” Before I have finished my sentence, I launch forward, trying to catch him off-guard. In a rapid series of strikes, I come at him, but he blocks every blow, his eyes watching me intently the entire time. Indeed, the hunger that is always there is even more present, and it is more unsettling than his strength. I allow that feeling of unease to show upon my face, then use the moment of his surprise to spin myself around to bring a resounding kick to his legs, trying to knock him off balance.
He does not budge. But the hunger deepens and an almost feral smile appears on his face, as if he thinks some primal challenge is being offered and he has decided to accept.
We are just sparring, I remind myself. Nothing more.
I try every way I know to lever my body against his, to upset his balance or cause him to shift, even a bit. But every time we touch, it feels far too much like a caress. Every time our bodies slam into each other, it feels like an unspoken promise. Is this some hellequin trick? Some spell they are able to cast with their dark natures? If so, it is a most unfair way to fight. However, no matter how much I try or from what angle I come at him, I realize I will never catch him unaware as I did that first time, and that is the only way I can best him, by getting in under his guard.
Annoyed, I rush him again, then feint to the side and spin so that I am behind him. I push myself against his body—pressing myself against him precisely as he did against me that first night we met—and get a chokehold around his neck. I feel everything inside him still, then he relaxes so that he sags into me. I am so unnerved by the sensation of it that I pause. Only for a second, but it is enough.
The next moment I am flying over his shoulder in a dizzying rush. I brace myself for my landing on the hard rock floor, knowing it will knock the wind out of me.
Except I never reach it. Instead, Balthazaar catches me and eases me back to my feet, almost as if we were dancing. My breath is coming fast now, but the bastard is not even breathing hard. And his arms are still around me. “If you wanted them watching you, they are,” he whispers in my ear. “Every move, every breath that passes your lips, has their full attention.”
I bring my arms up suddenly to break his hold, then leap away, annoyed that I am only able to do so because he let me. We are still close, too close, I realize, but before I can step back, he speaks once more. “What was your intent with this sparring of yours? To entice them? To entice me?”
At his accusation, a hot flush of mortification floods my body, for I was not trying to entice anyone. I reach out and shove him—hard—surprised when he gives way. “If that is the case, then it is their fault and not mine. I wished only to keep my own skills honed.” I follow up with another shove, which he again allows. “Simply because your thoughts are base does not mean I must accept the taint you would lay at my feet.” And then, realizing he is no longer as guarded as he was, I sweep my leg wide, knocking his out from under him, satisfied when he lands flat on his back in the dirt.
Holding my head high, I turn and begin walking to my bedroll. The other hellequin say nothing, but they move out of my way.
“If you so much as snicker, I will kill you all,” I hear him tell the others.
None of them laugh, but my own lips twitch in satisfaction.
It takes me a long while to fall asleep, as fury and embarrassment simmer in my limbs. However, I must do so at last because the next thing I know, I come awake. Even though it is unseasonably cold, I am warm, blissfully warm. Someone must have built a fire nearby. Except there is no red glow or light flickering against the cave wall. That is when I realize there is something solid at my back. Slowly, I turn over to find Balthazaar stretched out on the floor beside me. He is lying flat, the entire length of his side pressed up against me, his hands propped under his head. “Go back to sleep,” he mutters.
“You are making me too hot,” I mutter back.
“I am keeping you from freezing.”
“I do not need your help.”
He does not respond, but he does not get up and leave either. Deciding I am too tired to insist, I force my mind away from the complex, infuriating man beside me. Just as I am drifting off to sleep, he speaks again, so softly I cannot be certain it is not a dream.