Page 111 of An Empress of Air & Chaos

“For the record”—she looked up at the warrior who towered over her—“I do crave someone who does things differently; someone who makes me feel alive.” She took the throwing knife from his hand. “But that person is certainly not you...” She smiled devilishly as she pointed the knife at him. “Torin Blacksteel.”

He looked over her body, from head to toe. “For the record, you really need to stop lying to yourself! No one else could make you feel the way I could make you feel”—he broke into a lower tone—“Emara Clearwater.”

Her heart shook at the sound of her name on his lips. She mentally punched down everything that was stirred within. “Less chat, more instruction, please?” she said, mocking him. Emara waved the throwing knife at him and he had to bite down on his lips to stop himself from smiling.

He controlled his chiselled features well before saying, “Gladly.”

As they walked through the forest, she could see wooden targets painted in red. Torin instructed her that when he sounded, she was to try her best to meet the target by throwing her knife.

“Remember your breathing,” he coached. “You can’t kill a demon if you can’t concentrate because you are out of breath. Oxygen must flow through to your muscles.”

She did what he said, concentrating on her slow inhale and exhale.

“Left!” Torin yelled so loudly that her heart jumped up her throat.

She took on the command, her eyes searching for the nearest tree on her left. She flicked her wrist back like Marcus had shown her and let her elbow lock as she hurled the knife through the air towards the red target. The blade smacked the tree but didn’t stick as it bounced into the long grass that swept up the trunk.

“Also, to kill a demon you need to aim the blade so that it penetrates into the flesh. You only have seconds to do so. You can’t make a mistake; that could have been your last blade.”

“I managed to sink a few in the target boards in the sparring room.” She sounded pleased with herself.

“This is not the sparring room. You don’t fight real demons in the sparring room. You fight me and, as ruthless as you think I might be, demons are worse. Much worse!” He walked over and stood behind her. He moved her arm and rotated her hips, placing them into a better position. “Bend your leg slightly,” he commanded.

She did as she was told.

He took one of his throwing knives from his belt and placed it in her hand. As he rubbed a thumb over her wrist, showing her how it should be angled, a flame of unexplainable tension gripped her stomach.

It shouldn’t have felt that good. Oh, Gods above.

He pulled back her wrist and allowed himself to command her arm. To command her full body.

For once, she let him.

He squinted one eye as he jerked her arm forward, projecting the knife straight into the target’s centre.

“See, it’s always better when you listen to your instructor.” He turned with a grin and sauntered up the incline.

He left her to stare at the dagger and, as she did, a tingling swept over her body.

“Left,” Torin commanded. And with a smile, she took her aim.

Emara spent the next few days training twice a day. Once with Marcus in the morning on speed, agility, and endurance, and in the afternoon her sessions with Torin were on weaponry and hand-to-hand combat, which took more focus and precision than she had ever anticipated. Gideon had been letting her off lightly. But Torin certainly wasn’t.

After her training sessions, she would take to the infirmary to read, or if Gideon was awake, attend to him, allowing Rhea time to herself—which she reluctantly took. Gideon had been a bit brighter in the last few days, which let the tight band around her heart loosen slightly.

Once back from her daily trip to the library, Emara filled Gideon in on her findings regarding all the ancient manuscripts she had taken. Many of the books that she took were on demons, weaponry, and historical battles, which Gideon informed her he had already read.

She also slipped in a few on witchcraft and the ancient history of the Coven’s, but they were in her secret pile, next to her favourite box.

Each night, Gideon had read to her in return for her help, drawing circles on her arm with his fingertips as he did. She nuzzled into his side on the small infirmary mattress and listened to his voice making sense of all the ancient events that had shaped their world. Night after night, they slept together in the infirmary, neither of them going to their own rooms. It was a safe space for them both to spend time together.

Often, she would find that their legs intertwined as Gideon cocooned her from behind in his sleep, stealing kisses when she woke up. And for the first time in a long time, she felt safe again.

Emara knew Gideon was making progress in his recovery when he started to dot kisses all down her neck, sending a warmth across her skin. He was finally putting weight on his arm, and Torin had brought him some weights from the sparring room to work on strengthening his muscle again.

“Good morning,” he said, his velvet tone caressing the back of her neck. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to see the sunrise break through the trees,” she uttered, trying to downplay the change in her breathing at his mouth on her neck.

---