Please.
She shook her head and worked a cramp out of her neck muscle.
The truth was, she could so love this man. He could handle all her weird abilities and powers. He understood them, he admired them, he enjoyed them.
But deep in the back of her mind, that which nagged at her, which had lived in her since she was very young, was the fear that some of her power would get away from her and she’d hurt him, maybe even kill him. He had said her hand-blast had crossed dimensions, so, yeah, she was more powerful than even she understood. So, what if? Oh, God … what if?
She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe.
After a couple of minutes of just breathing, perspective emerged. She had been forgetting one small detail. All her thoughts were focused on whether or not she would have a relationship with Kerrick in the future when the real question was whether or not she even had a future. Apparently, the Commander wanted her really dead and wouldn’t stop until he got the job done.
She shifted her thoughts to the more pressing issue at hand: learning how to battle like a warrior just in case more death vamps came after her.
As she had told Kerrick more than once, she wasn’t a warrior. The pleasure she had experienced in bonding with her own identified sword and battling Kerrick because she had his muscle memory in her body, well, all of that was one thing.
Truth? She had as much killing instinct as a dust bunny.
She left the shower, dried off, then wrapped herself in a towel. She moved into the bedroom but Kerrick had left. She took one look at the pile of sweaty clothes she’d trained in and shuddered. She turned to the rack by the bathroom door then plucked a fresh set off the plastic hangers—jeans and a pink T-shirt this time, minus the fireworks over her cle**age.
As she dressed, she realized her triceps burned. She had worked out with weights for the last six months and she was strong, but if Kerrick had been unable to heal her throughout the training thus far, she would have been doubled over in pain.
Once dressed, and well over her seven-minute limit, she headed in the direction of the family room. Kerrick waited for her, a hard glint in his eye. Worse, he wouldn’t even look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze.
A hello would be nice, she sent, the words cut with sarcasm. He turned away from her, his hands planted on his hips, his shoulders bunched and pressed low. She reached out with her empathy and there it was again, another mountain of rage, this time laced with despair.
“What is it?” she asked, every sense on sudden alert.
The way his head jerked toward her and his gaze latched onto hers, she knew she’d pushed the right button.
He released a sigh. “This damn training.” He looked away, shifting his gaze off to the left.
A lie?
“What are you not telling me?”
Another sigh, forced. “I spoke with Thorne. I don’t have all the details yet. He just wanted to stress with me how important it was for both of us to work hard at the training over the next several hours.”
Alison knew he wasn’t telling her everything. She also knew he would tell her if she pushed him. So the question was, did she really want to know?
His demeanor said enough and right now, no, she didn’t want to know, not yet.
She drew her sword into her hand, her fingers tingling with recognition, her heart now slamming in her chest. Did this make her a coward, the not wanting to know? Or maybe just sensible.
One step at a time, Alison of Mortal Earth.
I don’t need to know anything more, she sent. Just train me, Warrior.
At that he turned toward her fully. His expression lightened … a little. You are a warrior, Alison. Maybe not of swords and daggers, but you have a warrior’s heart and a warrior’s courage. He nodded several times. Aloud, he said, “I just want you to know this has been one of the finest nights of my life.”
Alison crumbled inside. He sure knew how to get to a girl. “Ditto,” she whispered. She brought her hands together on the leather-wrapped handle of her sword. She lowered her chin and shoulders. She set her gaze on his abdomen to see which direction he intended to move.
The sacrifice of hours,
Reveals the truth of character.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 17
At dawn Kerrick stood over Alison. She was sound asleep in the guest room. He had trained her hard through the night until she simply couldn’t take one more step. He’d let her shower and head to bed. The truth was, she’d need her sleep, dammit, lots of it to be ready to undergo this latest farce, which would take place in about twelve hours.
At least she had a f**king amount of power. Maybe that would get her through.
Who was he kidding? She would be fighting General Leto, former Warrior of the Blood, Greaves’s second-in-command. How the hell was she supposed to defeat him? He’d been ascended for three thousand years and had fought as a warrior the entire time.
He cursed under his breath. He wanted to wake her up and keep teaching her how to use her sword, how to battle, how to size up an opponent, how to use her strengths and exploit the weaknesses of her enemy. But now he couldn’t. She needed sleep for the horror of what was about to happen to her, but oh, how he wanted more time to train her.
COPASS, that bullshit Committee of bullshit Committees, had done the Commander’s bidding … again. As he looked down at her, resolve tightened his chest. He couldn’t let the arena battle happen without putting up a fight.
Thorne had been right when he used the word reamed.
He thumbed his phone. “Hey, Central,” he said softly, turning away from Alison.
“Hey, duhuro,” Jeannie drawled, ready to tease as always.
“So not in the mood.”
“Give.” Yeah, Jeannie knew how to read the warriors, and her adjustment was swift.
“I need a lift to Second.”
“You got it. Location?”
“The Cave.”
He thumbed his phone and the vibration began. A moment later he stood in the middle of the rec room. Thorne was sprawled on the sofa opposite, asleep or maybe he’d passed out, probably the latter. Jean-Pierre sagged on a stool at the bar, sipping a French martini. He lifted his chin in a brief acknowledgment to Kerrick, sighed, then took another sip. He had bruises up and down both arms and shoulders. Fighting this night had gotten up close and personal for the Frenchman.
Kerrick did a double take in the direction of the pool table where Luken and Santiago were actually playing a game. Some kind of half-ass repair had been executed, which involved a lot of chicken wire and several two-by-fours. The result looked like something taken from a really run-down Mortal Earth trailer park. If they’d set up empty beer cans in a row on the rim, the picture would have been complete. At least the table was functional.