Page 26 of Blood of Wolves

Tessa tensed up with fresh nerves when he first joined them, but he was a calm, patient teacher, and the girl soon settled, brows crimped together in an expression of concentration that would have been comical if she wasn’t so earnest – and if the circumstances weren’t so dire. They spent half an hour working on footwork and the correct wrist angle before the gentle chiming of bells caught all their attention: the sound that signaled the changing of the guard shift. A guard that had been doubled, reinforced with the men of Aeres proper, farmers and craftsmen who’d been given helmets and spears, should the Sels attack in the night.

Revna wiped sweat off her brow with a sleeve, and saw that Tessa’s cheeks were vivid pink with exertion and cold. The stars were out. It was late. And any hour could be the start of a siege.

She was exhausted, suddenly. “That’s enough for tonight, I think. Hilda’s going to have a fit when she realizes you haven’t been tucked away in bed this whole time.”

Panting a little, Tessa dabbed at her face with gloved fingertips and said, “Well, this isn’t the most scandalous place I could be.” The moment she said it, her eyes went wide, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

Revna chuckled. “No, it isn’t.” She took the practice sword from now-limp fingers. “Go on, then. Warm up and get some sleep. We can work more tomorrow.”If we aren’t fighting for real.

“Right. Thank you,” Tessa squeaked, and took off for the doors.

Revna watched her go, russet hair and dark cloak streaming behind her, and marveled – not for the first time – at the juxtaposition of timid young noblewoman with fiery drake. Tessa was a sweet and caring girl, and that was admirable, but for her own part, Revna was glad to see the glimmer of steel beneath that kept poking through more and more. Aeretoll was a hard place full of hard people; a little steel was necessary.

“I’m surprised,” Bjorn mused. “I didn’t take her for the type to want sword lessons.”

Revna turned to him, lookedallthe way up to him, and blamed the way her pulse lurched on physical activity. “Maybe I insisted she learn,” she hedged.

He shook his head, his gaze far too fond – especially with them being out in the open like this. “No. That’s not you. You’re sweeter than you pretend to be.”

“Well, now you’re just talking nonsense.” She didn’t sound breathless, she reasoned; just winded. From sparring. That was the only explanation.

“Mmhm,” he murmured, and reached to pluck both practice swords from her.

“I’m perfectly capable of–” she began.

And he said, “I know,” still fond, a spark in his dark eyes that left her insides squirming pleasantly.

She watched him walk to the cupboard on the outer wall of the armory where all the practice weapons were kept; watched the roll of his gait and the flex of muscles in his back, visible even beneath his tunic and leather coat.

Watched also as a troop of guards passed, spear tips flashing over the top of the wall.

Here they were, poised on the eve of battle, and she was admiring muscles and longing after big, capable hands. Ashamed, she turned away, and headed back toward the palace. Not quickly, because now that adrenaline was wearing off, she realized just how out of practice she was, and how hard she’d pushed herself today. She ached all over, even down to the soles of her feet. Just a few steps, and without the surge of pumping blood, as the cold set in, she could feel the muscles in her arms and legs beginning to knot and stiffen up.

Bollocks.

Bjorn caught up to her, easily, and though she put her hands down, his gaze snapped right to the way she’d been massaging the knuckles of her strong hand. “Sore?” he guessed.

She grunted in the affirmative, and kept walking.

They reached the double doors that led into the rear vestibule of the palace, and Bjorn reached forward easily to open the way for her, as chivalrous as ever. Normal behavior, but it prickled along her nerves, now.

“You’re out of practice,” he said.

“Obviously.”

A quick glance proved that his brows had shot up. She’d more or less snapped at him.

She sought to temper her expression as the doors thumped shut behind them, closing off the cold, and scraped the snow off her boots onto the rug laid out for just such a purpose. It was a normal activity, daily and habitual, as second-nature as breathing. But this time, when she lifted her right foot, her left hamstring knotted up something fierce, and she buckled.

She would have, at any rate, if Bjorn’s arm hadn’t slipped around her waist and held her upright.

The sudden, firm clasp of him, the heat of his bare skin, palpable through her layers of clothes, startled her more than it should have. He was strong – everyone could tell that he was strong just looking at him – but knowing that andfeelingit were two very different things.

For instance, now, it took no imagination whatsoever to envision him picking her up effortlessly with one hand and tossing her over his shoulder. She gasped, and when she lifted her head, gaze drawn helplessly toward his face, she found him watching her with a concern that quickly melted into open hunger. A look that sent a bolt of heat straight through her.

In that unguarded moment of eye contact, she knew there was no hiding her own reaction. She couldn’t disguise the way he sent tremors rippling through her. But she dragged her gaze away anyway, and fixed it on a spot on the far wall. It was too late, she’d already damned herself, but she drew in a steadying breath and regained her balance anyway, the weight of his arm dragging at her.

“Cramp?” he asked.

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