Page 54 of Kingdom of Shadows and Wings

“Wait…you said your friend started from a distance. Why do I have to touch and mount the alicorns already if slower is better?”

“Because, Duchess, we don’t have the luxury of time. You can only skip class so often before your classmates start to suspect, and if you think the hazing is bad now, imagine how much worse it would get if someone like Durand found out. More importantly, I’m trying to get you ready to fly for the upcoming trial, which can be dangerous for even the most skilled flyers. So the quicker you get over your fear, the less likely we’ll be scraping you off the ground.”

My eyes widen. During our meeting, Bigley mentioned an upcoming trial. I can’t believe I forgot. “When is it again?”

“A little less than five weeks.”

Why his answer disappoints me is anyone’s guess. I already knew. Bigley told me. Only, five weeks will be cutting things close. What happens if I haven’t found Leesa by then? Will I leave anyway to avoid the trial? Or will I stay and pray that no one has to scrape my broken body off the ground, as Thorne so delightfully detailed.

“Let me get a look at your hands.”

“They’re fine.”

He peels back my fingers to inspect the raw flesh. “They’re not fine.”

“I’ll find some gloves for tomorrow.” I tug my hand free from his grip. “I’d better finish.”

“You’re the most stubborn…”

He stalks out of the stall. I can’t make out the rest of his tirade, but I’m pretty certain he swears a few times.

Shaking my head, I pick up the pitchfork, wincing as I resume cleaning. Moments later, footsteps thud in the aisle, and Thorne reappears beside me. “Put that down.”

His barked command has me bristling. Ignoring him, I continue to scoop the soiled straw.

“I see that listening isn’t one of your strong points.”

Narrowing my eyes, I spin to face him. “I see that using manners isn’t one of yours.”

His jaw flexes. “Put that down…please.”

Thepleasesounds strangled, like someone wrenched it out of him against his will. I wonder when he last used the word. Taking my time, I make a show of propping the pitchfork against the wall. “Did that hurt?”

Nostrils flaring, Thorne closes the distance between us. My nerves shriek a warning, and I back away until I bump into the wall.

“Five minutes.” His low voice is menacing as he cages me by planting his forearms on either side of my head. He leans close to my ear and whispers. “I just need you to shut that annoying mouth of yours for five minutes. Think you can handle that?”

He’s standing so close that his minty breath grazes my skin. The heady scent of leather and soap assaults my senses, and I can feel his body heat. This little display of dominance should frighten me or piss me off. What it shouldn’t do is tempt me to push off the wall until our bodies press together and drag his head down until our lips touch. It shouldn’t generate an explosion of tingles all over my skin or ignite a fire deep in my belly.

My body needs to quit rebelling against my brain.

Tension crackles between us. I start to reply, think the better of it, and nod instead. He steps back, and an initial flare of disappointment gives way to relief. Better that he moves now. Before he realizes the effect he has on me, and I’m forced to spend the rest of my days hiding in a deep hole.

“Good.” He reaches into his pocket, produces a small tin, and pops off the lid. “Hold out your hand.”

I hesitate. After my attitude, I’m half afraid he’ll rub salt in my wounds. “Why?”

Heaving a sigh, he scoops out a dollop of some kind of clear ointment, crooking his finger. “It hasn’t even been a minute.”

“Sorry.” The word is a whisper. Deciding I’d better obey, lest he lose his patience, I hold out my palm.

He rubs the salve on a blister, and I jerk. Hells. It’s like someone seared my palm with a hot poker. “Keep still. It’ll feel better in a second.”

While he tends to my hands, I study his face. His brow furrows in concentration as he works. This close, the scar on his jawline is clearly visible, the white streak spanning about two inches. I wonder what caused the injury. A dagger? A claw?

A lock of loose hair falls in his face, and my greasy palms are the only thing stopping me from tucking the wayward strand behind his ear.

He reaches into his pocket again, pulling out gauze and bandages. “It’s rude to stare.”

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