Page 43 of Fear the Flames
“Shut up!” I knee him in the stomach, and he takes a few steps back. I know exactly what he’s doing. He wants me to act on anger because anger will make my moves sloppy. I try to keep it under wraps, but venom coils through me.
“You want to ask me so many questions? Well, now it’s my turn to ask some.” I whirl my blade in his direction while firing off questions that make my stomach twist. “Why did you get so distant in the bakery?” Separate and lock again. “Why do you hate Garrick so much?” Separate and lock again. “How did you get the scar on your face?”
His nostrils flare, and he forces me back with his blade. I stumble over the foot he wedges behind my heels and throw my weight to the side to keep my balance. He takes this opportunity to grab my arm and spin me so my back is pressed against his chest. Before he can lower his blade to my neck, I block him, and the swords lock right in front of my face. My arms shake with how much effort I use to keep his blade away from me. Being this close to him only increases my temper because I can feel that he’s not as affected as I am. He’s sweating, but his arms and legs are firm, unshaken.
He lowers his lips to my ear, “You lived in Aestilian, you had the privilege of being a ghost. Did Ailliard tell you he wants you to go back there so you can live out the rest of your days coddled? Because I know you’d hate that. You’d hate to hear someone belittle you like that.”
“You don’t get to judge my choices when you don’t know the options I had,” I snarl. My body vibrates with the need to finish this fight. Shoving the blades forward, I drop to a squat and pivot before facing him again. I may have been a ghost, but I had a plethora of people to take care of before I lost all my baby teeth. I was hunted and haunted. Even when I had days with nothing to do, which were few and far between, my mind tortured me. What could I have done? Stare down Garrick’s army with only a few soldiers and knives and go back to an existence in a dark cell filled with suffering?
I want this fight to be over so I can get away from Cayden. Everything he is saying is ripping down everything he has said to me. I surge forward and put all my weight into the first swing so I can knock his blade to the side, far enough so I can shoot my fist forward and connect with his jaw. It’s not hard enough to bruise or draw blood. He hardly seems phased, but gods, that felt good, even if my knuckles sting.
Cayden cranes his face back to me, “I enjoy your feisty side.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you enjoy. I’ve wanted to do that for the past two weeks.”
“I love it when you get sentimental,” he grins.
My knees wobble under the force of his next blow, but I remain standing. I won’t be able to hold off another one like that, so I wait for the next strike, biding my time to slip into the perfect window of opportunity. His sword rises again, and the next blow is coming. I duck under his arm and kick him in the back of his legs, bringing him to his knees.
“You look good on your knees,” I purr.
I swing my blade to make the final blow, but he knocks it straight out of my hand with his. Then, with shocking speed, he reaches back and grips my wrist. Before I can register what’s happening, he shoots his foot out while tugging me forward and spins me before I can faceplant. My back hits the ground, and he’s above me in a second, pinning my arms on either side of my head.
“You look even better on your back,” he smirks down at me.
He won.
He won.
He won.
Our faces are so close that he could whisper something, and I’d hear it perfectly. He’s so close that he can see the flames of my anger burning behind my eyes, but he doesn’t leave like most people do when they witness me at my angriest; he stays on top of me.
“Get. Off.” I’m not mad about losing the bet, I’m annoyed at that, but I’m angry about the questions he fired off at me.
“We’re not done training. You’re going to punch my hands and let your anger out,” he states.
“No.” I try to push him off, but his hold on my wrists tightens.
He narrows his eyes at me, “Fine. But you’re going to listen to me.”
“I obviously don’t have much of a choice,” I bite out.
He ignores me, “Elowen, I don’t believe whatever Ailliard told you. I can assume whatever it was based on your reaction and the fact you aren’t telling him about the heist. You’re going to get angry when we go to Imirath, and you’re going to get angry when you see Ailliard again. I can handle your anger, all of it, but I want to make sure you’re going to be okay when you have to face whatever it is you fled.”
“Stop. Please stop.” I feel like there are knives in my lungs. He doesn’t need to stop talking; he just needs to stop looking at me like he cares about me.
“I will never, and have never, judged you for the choices you made that led you here,” he continues. The sting of my past actions burns me like acid. Usually time dulls pain, but thinking about how I left my dragons behind will always remain an open wound. I laid awake so many nights in Aestilian while the guilt ate me alive to the point I could hardly function. The wails of my dragons as Ailliard kept me locked on his horse are still fresh in my mind. That day was the last day I ever begged for anything; I pleaded with Ailliard to turn around, but he didn’t listen. I thrashed in his hold to no avail. I would have thrown myself off the horse and ran back to them if I could have.
“Elowen,” he murmurs, “look at me, angel. I didn’t mean to push you that hard.” His voice brings me back to the present. He’s looking down at me in a way that paralyzes me.
“I’m sorry if I said anything that offended you,” I whisper. I don’t want to talk to him about what’s going on in my head right now. Asking him those questions physically pained me. I wonder if it pained him to ask me his—it looks like it did.
He shakes his head, “I started it, don’t apologize.” But I do feel sorry; I don’t want to use things I observe about him as ammunition. “Ailliard is a fool if he can’t see how resilient you are,” he whispers in a gravelly voice.
“You mean that?” I match his tone.
“Every damn word.” He releases my wrists but stays on top of me, keeping both of his hands on either side of my head. My wrist lay helplessly motionless in the grass where he pinned them, but neither of us move. I can’t look away; it feels like I’m in a trance. His eyes pin me to the ground as easily as his hands did.
