Page 77 of Kingmakers, Year Four

“Where are you taking me?” Nix asks, noting the pairs and trios of students who have already crept off this way to find a secluded spot for their intimate activities.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to seduce you,” I say.

Possibly another lie.

I can’t take my eyes off her. My cock has been hard all night from every brush of her thigh against mine.

It doesn’t help when Nix says in her low, throaty voice, “I’m not worried.”

Our eyes meet and slide apart.

“Sit here,” I say, indicating the base of an almond tree.

Nix lowers herself down gingerly, her legs unwilling to bend in the normal way.

I take her thighs across my lap. Gently, carefully, I begin to massage her quads. I start down by the knees, rubbing my thumbs in small circles where the muscle fibers meet the kneecap.

“Ohhh, Jesus,” Nix groans, her head tilted back and her long, creamy throat exposed to the moonlight. “Why does that feel so good?”

“It’s one of the biggest muscle groups. Lactic acid builds up . . . feels good to release it.”

I work my way upward, using the heels of my palms to run up and down the long strings of muscle.

Nix’s legs are firm, but not like a man’s. However androgynous she might dress, Nix remains feminine. She’s not boyish—just a powerful and beautiful woman.

I haven’t touched anyone in a long time.

Nix’s warm legs laying across mine give me comfort she can’t possibly know.

“Are you a professional masseuse?” Nix laughs. “Your touch is just . . . fucking magical.”

I think of my family, where affection was as common as words, in a way that might surprise an outsider.

My father taught me to fight. My mother taught me to shoot. Both were harsh taskmasters, expecting a level of tactical precision that I’ve often had to hide at school so I don’t draw attention to myself.

Yet, they were never violent with me outside of training. My father would rub my shoulders when he knew my traps were seizing up. And my mother would run her fingers through my hair as we watched a movie, like I was still a small child.

We hugged each other. We laughed together.

Our world is cold, but it was never a cold house.

“What’s wrong?” Nix asks me, feeling my hands clench on her thighs.

When I don’t answer, Nix says, “Are you trying to date me Ares, or are we just friends? I can’t read you as well as some people.”

Because I confuse her on purpose.

Because I’m not Ares at all.

“We can’t date,” I say.

“Why not?”

My jaw twitches. “I don’t think your father would like that.”

“Do you care whathewants? Or whatIwant?”

Through the thin silk of her trousers, I can feel her blood rushing, right under my palms. I know her heart is beating as hard as mine.

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