Page 49 of Burned to Obey

He feints, and I stumble, heart pounding. I recover quickly, whipping my sword in an arc that nearly grazes his shoulder. He blocks with a solid blow, sending a jolt up my arm. I set my teeth, refusing to yield. We fall into a cycle of strikes and counters, dust swirling around our feet. My heart thumps with exertion, sweat beading along my temples.

Eventually, he surges forward in a mock charge. I pivot, but the motion snags on my sore ribs, making me wince. My sword arm falters. He lowers his blade just enough that we don’t collide violently, but the momentum pushes me off balance. I almosttopple, gasping. His free hand darts out, gripping my waist to steady me, the warmth of his palm searing through my tunic.

“Careful,” he mutters, horns angled close. “Your side?—”

“I know,” I snap, half from pain, half from the surge of something else. Anger, attraction, frustration—I can’t name it. My cheeks flush. He’s so close, his breath a soft rumble. I can’t help noticing the powerful line of his neck, the brand on his shoulder that marks him as House Rhek’tal. The faint scars crossing his chest plate reflect in the early sunlight, each telling a story I’ve only glimpsed.

I push away gently. He releases me, though his expression darkens with concern. “We should slow,” he says.

“No,” I insist, voice sharp. “I want to learn. Thakur’s threats haven’t vanished. I can’t be a weak link.”

His jaw tightens. “Fine.” He steps back, stance guarded, raising his sword again. “One more sequence, then we stop.”

We resume the spar, adjusting for my bruises. The pace is measured, but my heart still pounds. Each time I meet his eyes, a flicker of tension ignites, leaving me breathless. Our swords tap, wood vibrating. I see the subtle shift in his footwork, warning me of an incoming strike. I block, and for an instant, we lock eyes again. My grip trembles.

On a whim, I swerve aside, letting my instincts guide me. He swings low, I jump back. The momentum places me behind him. Before he recovers, I reach out to brace myself—my hand lands on his left horn. Time slows, my fingers curling around that curved shape. It’s a raw, intimate contact among minotaurs, I recall him once mentioning. Realization strikes like lightning, but I can’t pull away fast enough. His entire body goes rigid.

For a heartbeat, we stand frozen in that stunningly personal moment. My hand on his horn, the wooden sword still in my other. His breath hitches, amber eyes darkening with a flash of something primal. I sense the seismic jolt inside him. Warmthflares in my chest, mingled with a spike of alarm. I never intended to cross that line. Yet here we are, locked in a hush so thick it steals the air.

He pivots abruptly, dislodging my hand. The wooden sword in his grip drops an inch, leaving him open. I see the tension rippling through his neck and shoulders as if warring with an instinct to draw me closer or fling me away. My heart pounds, cheeks hot. I open my mouth, searching for words, but none come.

In a single swift motion, he steps toward me, eyes locked on mine. Our faces hover inches apart. I glimpse the swirl of conflict in his gaze—desire, confusion, that fierce protective streak. My pulse roars in my ears, tears prickling behind my eyes from sheer intensity. He leans in, breath brushing my cheek. My entire body quivers with a longing so sharp it steals reason. For a split second, I think he’ll kiss me. The possibility sends sparks through my blood, my heart screaming yes and no all at once.

He tears himself away, staggering back a full step, horns trembling with contained turmoil. “We… we’re done,” he rasps, voice uneven, fraying at the edges. He won’t look at me. He shoves the wooden sword onto the rack, grabbing his chest plate’s strap as if searching for an anchor.

I stand there, pulse thunderous, my hand still tingling from touching his horn. My mind reels, a swirl of shock and burning awareness. I find no words. He glances at me once, expression clenched with regret or fear, I can’t tell. Then he strides off, tail lashing, leaving me alone in the courtyard.

I let out a shuddering breath, knees weak. The dust around my feet settles. The sun overhead feels too bright, too exposing. My chest tightens with a potent mix of shame and longing. I touched his horn—an intimate gesture in his culture—and nearly triggered something we’re not prepared for. My entire body stillbuzzes from that near-contact with his lips. I clamp a hand to my chest, struggling to steady my frantic heartbeat.

Why did I do that? My rational mind scolds me for being reckless. But in that moment, something deeper guided me—curiosity, an inexplicable pull toward him. We’ve been dancing around unspoken attraction for days, maybe weeks, forging reluctant respect out of forced alliance. Now I can’t deny how fiercely I’m drawn to him, or how terrifying it is to want someone with the power to shape my fate.

After a long moment, I pry my feet from the ground, retrieving my wooden sword. My guard steps forward, concern etched on his face, but I wave him off. “I’m fine,” I whisper, voice shaky. I store the weapon in silence, then leave the courtyard. My mind remains in chaos. Each corridor I pass feels suffocating, as if the fortress walls close in on me.

I detour to the southwestern storeroom, hoping to bury myself in logs. When I arrive, I find it dimly lit, crates stacked haphazardly. Perfect. I slump against a crate, pressing my forehead to the cool wood, trying to quell the trembling in my limbs. I replay the moment: my hand on his horn, his near-surrender, the flash of raw desire in his eyes. My entire life, I’ve never experienced such a sudden, consuming spark. It frightens me as much as it lures me.

Memories churn, dragging my focus to the sigil carved into my flesh—a claim pressed into me without consent, meant to evoke hate. And yet… he’s treated me with more care than anyone in years. I can’t make sense of it. A slow-burning fire crackles inside me, stoked by confusion and want. I shudder, burying my face in my palm. If Thakur or the Senate catch even a whisper of this—whatever this is—they’ll weaponize it.

A distant clang echoes in the corridor, stirring me from my thoughts. I straighten, inhaling to calm my nerves. I have tasks to finish, contraband to watch for, and a fortress full of watcherswho’d delight in my downfall. I can’t let this slip distract me. But no matter how I try, the memory lingers, a burn that won’t fade.

Time crawls as I inspect the storeroom, verifying no new shipments arrived unlogged. My guard stands near the entrance, occasionally glancing my way. I mask my turmoil behind a facade of efficiency. Each crate I open, each item I tick off the list, helps me reclaim some semblance of normalcy. But the second I stop, my mind returns to that courtyard. The near-kiss. The heat in his eyes. My heart pounds all over again.

By the time I finish, my throat feels parched. I set aside the ledger, stepping out to find water. The corridor’s subdued torchlight illuminates a few passing guards who barely nod at me. My assigned guard remains silent, dutifully trailing me as I head to a corner station where water is kept for workers. I scoop a tin cup of water, gulping it down. My ribs ache, a dull reminder of the physical strain. Yet the real ache sits in my chest, an unspoken yearning I can’t banish.

I decide to seek a calmer corner for a moment of respite. The Bastion might be massive, but private nooks are rare. I recall a small balcony near the eastern wing, mostly overlooked since it leads nowhere significant. My guard hesitates as I navigate the labyrinth of corridors, but follows when I give no explanation. Eventually, I find the narrow door that opens onto a modest stone balcony overlooking the fortress wall. The air is cooler here, swirling with a faint breeze that smells of salt from the distant sea.

I step out, letting the guard remain at the threshold. Leaning on the stone railing, I gaze at the horizon. Over the cliffs, the ocean extends, faintly visible. The late afternoon sky glows with oranges and purples. My chest tightens at the beauty, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me. Everything has changed since I arrived: from forced brand to finding a fragile trust with the Bastion’s Warden. Yet it’s more than trust. My breath catchesas I recall the heat of his body, the swirl of longing that nearly undid us.

I stand there a while, letting the breeze ruffle my hair. My mind whirls with conflicting thoughts. I want to be free of any chain, especially one forced upon me. And yet a part of me can’t resist the slow burn each time Saru stands near, each time our eyes lock in unspoken conversation. Fear tangles with a desperate craving for his nearness. I close my eyes, pressing trembling fingers to the raised scar etched into my skin. Letting him in risks betrayal, heartbreak, and political ruin. But locking him out means smothering something real. I’m caught in a snare either way.

Eventually, I turn back inside. My guard trails me once more, though he offers no comment. I appreciate his silence. The corridor feels endless as I return to the quartermaster station, logs still waiting. Might as well bury myself in tasks until nightfall, anything to outrun the swirl in my mind.

Hours pass, the hustle of Bastion life surging around me. I sign off on final distributions, confirm no contraband turned up, and wave off the load of daily complaints from minor disputes. My guard helps usher a few unruly prisoners to their assigned tasks. The setting sun’s glow filters through a high window when I finally set down my quill, exhausted but still restless.

I glance at the corridor beyond, debating whether to seek out Saru or simply retreat to my quarters. A flutter in my stomach warns me I’m not ready to face him yet, not after that near-kiss. My rational side demands I keep my distance. Let it pass. But part of me aches to see him, to talk, or do something to ease this tension.

The guard steps forward. “Are you done for the day, quartermaster?”

I nod slowly. “Yes, I’m…” I hesitate, chewing my lip. “I’ll go to my quarters.” He salutes, falling in step behind me. Thecorridor is dim, torches casting dancing shadows. My body moves automatically, each step echoing. I feel half in a dream, consumed by the memory of his breath so close.

---