Page 102 of Emylia

And the next stroke—mystroke—was clean.

Maalikai guided my movements a few more times before stepping back, letting me take the reins. His absence should’ve steadied me. It didn’t.

I rolled my shoulders, adjusting my stance, doing my best to mimic the way he’d moved behind me—fluid, commanding, precise.

Gods, it was a little unfair how good he was at everything.

It took a few more tries, but once I found the sweet spot—the exact angle, the right pressure—the blade skimmed smooth as silk. Clean shaves curled off like ribbons, falling to the earth with a whisper.

The trick? Don’t force it. Just...coax it.

Maalikai circled back after a minute, glancing down at the line I’d carved. His brows lifted, visibly impressed.

“Excellent,” he murmured. “That’s actually really good for a first time.”

I looked up at him, smug. “Actually? What happened to faith in my obvious brilliance?”

A breath of laughter escaped him—rare, unguarded—and a crooked smile tugged at his lips.

It hit me like lightning.

Gods. That smile could ruin kingdoms.

“I do have faith in you,” he said. “You just keep surpassing it.”

Oh.

Okay.

I pretended to stay cool, but inside I was simmering. No—scorching.

His approval lit something deep and stupid and hungry. I felt like a five-year-old again, trying to get Daddy’s attention—except this time, Daddy was a brooding war God, and I wanted far more than a pat on the head.

“It’ll take a few hours to shape the whole thing properly,” he said, arms crossing over his chest, presenting me with a devastating picture of war-forged perfection. “Ends need to be thinner, and I’ll have to carve a handrest into the center.”

Then he stepped closer—tooclose—and took the drawknife from me. The brush of his fingers against mine was brief. Barely anything.

Still, my heart leapt like I’d been caught stealing.

“You don’t want me to keep going?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Knowing damn well I didn’t want this to end.

His gaze flicked up, slow and knowing. “You’ve got the point.” His voice dropped, thick with something darker. Something unspoken.

Then he smirked.

“And I think what you really need is to let off some steam.”

I raised a brow. “Is that your way of saying I’m wound up?”

“Just a little,” he said, voice dipping lower.

Then he stepped in—closer.

Closing the gap he’d spent all afternoon dancing around.

“And I’m happy to help. In any way I can.” His voice was sinfully low. Only for me.

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