Page 89 of The Art of Exiley

He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Sorry. Bloche’s away again, and my schedule is full this week. It’s nothing you can’t manage on your own.” He does lookup now, his eyes clear of any kind of care. “If you have any questions, you can ask them during seminar. Enjoy your lunch.”

And with that look and those words, suddenly all my doubts come crashing back. What’s a jealous glance? Easily misinterpreted, that’s what. Words and actions speak louder than imperceptible, probably imagined body language. I need to move on from my fantasies. They’re distracting me from what’s important, and, though I hate to admit it, they’re tearing me apart inside.

Rafe has saved me a seat next to him, but the thought of eating with a bunch of Guard trainees is not appealing. Bram and Yvette are at that table. They’te both clearly trying to get back into Rafe’s good graces, and he seems willing to put up with their presence, which I don’t understand. But he doesn’t protest when I bypass his table to sit with Georgie. Simon eagerly takes the empty seat instead. He’s been following Rafe around as if he’s auditioning for the role of his tail.

Mine and Rafe’s behavior has not gone unnoticed, and Georgie has a questioning, mildly offended look in her eyes. But everyone near us is clearly eavesdropping; they’re not even being subtle about it. I’ll have to wait until later to explain everything to her.

But no time presents itself before I need to meet Rafe for our first training session.

He’s reserved us a studio in the Spring wing, an area I’ve hardly explored. I enter a corridor that has an actual river running through it and soft moss growing on the walls. The river turns into a waterfall as I reach a staircase, which I descend, breathing in the fresh, cool mist. I should really hang out here more often. There are breezy rooms with pools, saunas, exercise equipment, and a lot of scantily clad journeys taking advantage of the amenities.

I find the room where Rafe has instructed me to meet him. He’s lying on a mat on the floor, shirtless, glowing with sweat, clearly having just finished around of crunches, or perhaps shooting an underwear ad, because I’m pretty sure that’s the only other place in the universe where men look like this.

“Hey, Little Weed,” he greets me, the epithet holding no malice.

There’s a tattoo of a dragon on the left side of his chest. I drag my eyes away from his sculpted torso and very consciously focus on staring at his nose so that my eyes don’t accidentally wander anywhere else.

“Can you put on a shirt?” I reply in a higher pitch than intended.

Look at his nose, Ada.

He grins, gracefully leaps to his feet, and walks to the corner of the room, where he fills a glass from a small waterfall. Now I’m panicking because his nose is gone, and I don’t know where to look.

The room is mostly empty, with many windows and a fresh earth floor covered in rugs. There’s a crop of rocks in the corner where the waterfall flows into a small pool, the stones forming multiple storage cubbies. Across the room, there’s a crack where a root grows through the wall. I focus on that.

“Are you ready to train?” Rafe asks. I’m still aggressively staring at the root, but I see him in my peripheral vision, carelessly toweling off his sweat, his muscles doing all sorts of ripply things.

“About that shirt,” I remind him.

“I’m glad you like what you see,” he responds.

“Also, pants,” I add. His tight shorts provide a little too much information.

He laughs. “Little Weed, you’re gonna have to get used to all this perfection”—he gestures at his exposed figure—“if we’re going to be training together.”

Right. Training. Once I finish contemplating the deep philosophical truth—that I have only just come to understand—about the etymology of the term “washboard abs.”

To my relief, Rafe conjures a shirt from one of the cubbies. Then he stands, hands on hips, and says, “Okay, where should we start?”

I clear my throat. “You tell me.”

He slowly circles me, assessing, and I start to seriously regret the faded leggings and frumpyTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtlesshirt I’m wearing. Couldn’t I have at least fixed my hair? I still haven’t bothered to trim it, and overgrown waves are frizzing everywhere.

“How can we turn you into some kind of actual threat?”

“Gee, thanks,” I respond dryly as I try desperately—and hopelessly—to ignore the heat I feel emitting from his body so close behind me.

“If the Inquisitors have antimatter, you’ll need knowledge of basic combat so you’re not completely useless if your abilities are neutralized.”

Combat sounds very hands-on. One side glance at those tight shorts and I want to be decidedly hands-off.

“Let’s start with the Sire stuff. You seem to think that’s a particular weakness.”

“Yes, one of many.”

I roll my eyes.

“Do you have a sparker on your spoon?”

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