Page 32 of An Empress of Earth & Darkness

A promising thought had Emara standing in a second.

She knew of a place that would give her a view of the city and air on her skin as she worked through all the thoughts in her mind.

Heading to the door, she met Artem at his post, as always.

“I want to release you from your post for the night,” she announced, meeting his eye, knowing full well that she was about to find herself in another showdown. “You should go and enjoy the celebrations.”

“You know I can’t do that.” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaving the wall behind. “Why are you trying to entice me with celebrations? What tricks do you have up your witchy little sleeves tonight?”

She closed her eyes on an outward breath. “Artem, I just want to be alone for an hour. I am going to the rooftop of the Tower, not the fighting pits.”

Artem lifted his brow. “You never know with you these days.”

Spending so much time with one person meant that you got to know a lot about them, their mind, their strengths, their weaknesses…

Emara put her hand on the door frame. “I will be fine. I just need to feel…free. I need some time alone. Plus, I need you to find Breighly Baxgroll. She should be back at the Tower soon. Your father should be clearing her now for the position and is keen for her to take the night post. It will give her time to think if she wants to take the oath or not and it will give you time to rest. Plus, she might come looking for me…here.”

His eyes sparkled. “Oh. Okay. Do you think she will come to your quarters? She knows where they are, right? Do you want me to wait here in case you miss her or aren’t back on time?”

“Yes, Artem.” Emara bit back a grin. “Do you think you can give me a little space? Just for a teeny tiny hour.”

He nodded quickly, running a hand through his russet hair. “Okay, sure. I can wait here. Okay, yeah. I will wait here. Makes sense,” he said, his forehead wrinkling as his eyes narrowed. “No rush. Take your time. I will be right here.”

She placed a hand on his huge bicep. “Thanks, champ.”

He leaned in, a stern look on his face. “Do not leave this Tower. I mean it, Empress of Wandering into Trouble.”

Emara offered her guard a smile and then disappeared into the corridor to hide her amusement at a very flustered Artem Stryker waiting for a certain wolf.

Climbing the stairs so quickly burned her thighs in a way that validated her strength instead of her old weakness. Before, she would have been out of breath, but her training recently had increased not only her speed but her endurance too. When she could feel her lungs burn, she called on her element as a remedy. Reaching the old door that looked extremely out of place, she burst through the threshold and was smacked by a strong summer breeze. It was muggy, but it was enough to soothe her skin after her climb.

Closing her eyes, she let the breeze cool her face, neck and mind, letting the summer air whirl around her body. Her element had found her like she had called to it, and it gave her what she required, wrapping her in a delicate, comforting embrace.

The sounds of punching leather and throaty grunts interrupted her, and she opened her eyes before taking a few steps out onto the rooftop properly.

A brown leather punching bag stood like an enemy of the Blacksteel Clan at the furthest side of the roof.

Emara’s heart fluttered into her throat as she witnessed Torin Blacksteel’s bare knuckles battering against its weight. His strong back muscles moved under his slick skin, demonstrating how powerful his body was as he made blow after blow. Emara sometimes forgot how lethal he was, but seeing him like this was always a reminder of how much of a powerhouse he truly was. His feet moved just as quickly as his hands, always surprising her with how graceful his movements were for the sheer size of him. His torso rotated, showing his carved abdomen as he punched and punched and punched, obliterating the punching bag.

His breathing was heavy, his chest convulsing more than she had ever seen. He had been up here a while, she guessed. She could see evidence of the leather starting to burst at one side of the bag.

How many times had he punched that thing?

“We’ve got to stop meeting up here, Torin,” she called as the gentle breeze blew at a few loose strands of her braid and carried his name out towards the city below.

He halted, his back more tense than before.

“I didn’t realise you trained up here,” she said, and she took a sharp inhale when he didn’t respond to her. “Or that you were still at the Tower.”

She had wondered if he had gone back to the pits to fight himself to death or drink himself into an oblivion again.

But he hadn’t. He was here.

Torin didn’t look around as he started punching again. “I am not training.”

He was self-destructing.

What was worse, he could barely even look at her, and it had been that way since his father had told the prime of his amendments to the marriage treaty. However, today, for the first time in many moons, she had seen a little glimmer of hope as he defended her at the summit. A sliver of how he felt about her. His eyes had locked with hers and he’d held his breath when he looked at her.

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