Page 34 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
His hips flex into my rear, digging a hardness I can only assume is one thing. His hand slides down, igniting heat I refuse to acknowledge. Our backs are to the castle. No one sees his hand gliding lower. My lashes flutter under the weight of my hormones. I just want to drop—to show him my belly and let him take me. He is a force of strength surrounding me, and I ache for more. Fox has been gone for mere hours, and yet I crave touch. What is wrong with me?
“Maybe I don’t need to prove anything,” I whisper as his palm reaches my stomach. “Maybe you need to trust I’ll do what’s necessary when it matters.”
“Or you’re afraid of what you might reveal. You won’t act because you’re being watched.”
His words strike a nerve. Anger and determination surge, drowning self-doubt. I snap my head back, connecting with his face. Pain explodes in my skull, but I face him, ready to defend.
He wipes his nose. No blood—the fight’s not over. A wide grin transforms his face into something breathtaking. Damn him for looking so good, smelling like my personal sanctuary. He’s my opponent, not my . . . whatever. No, screw him and his stupid perfect body. Perfect eyes. Howdohis eyes always look bedroom-ready? It must be those long lashes, that lazy stare.
I wonder what his actual bedroom looks like.
Heat floods my cheeks. I groan, shaking away the thoughts. He’s my mate; of course, his scent affects me. He must feel it, too.
I take a moment to let that sink in. I can use this.
Grinning, I assess his frame. Immortal or not, his anatomy remains predictably human. That semi-hard length between his legs . . . yeah, he’s turned on. The Sluagh might not have beensexual beings before they received their drop of light magic, but they’re definitely sexual now. Fox taught me his cock works like any hot-blooded male’s.
“Giving up?” he taunts.
“Just getting warmed up.” I strip off my outer layer, leaving just a thin shirt. I unbutton the collar, glaring defiantly.
“Some kind of warning?” His lips curve. “Gloves off?”
I reach behind to grab the wooden fence, stretching and putting on a show. No sword means my body takes the hits. I refuse to lose to a cramp. His dark eyes roam my body. I’m acutely aware of the effect on him . . . and my watching mates. They’ve stilled. Good. Let them underestimate me.
After finishing stretching, I roll my shoulders, crack my knuckles, and attack. My movements grow precise and deadly. Bodin matches me blow for blow, and our dance intensifies. I brush against him, making small feminine sounds, but he resists admirably.
“I’ve seen how you fight when no one’s watching,” he says between strikes. “It’s not just training. It’s instinct.”
I falter, his words hitting home. This is why we moved—away from prying ears. He knows I hide my true self from my friends. He pushes me to embrace my darkness. I get it. I went there when I first met them—when Ignarius made me fight Dahlia. I almost killed her. In class! Max was a little scared of me. He admitted it.
It’s not Bodin’s choice.
He presses his advantage, backing me toward the fence. “Why hide what you are?”
“You don’t know me,” I snap, redoubling my efforts. I twist and turn, channeling all my strength into each move. My eyes never stop assessing—how his guard drops when he attacks. Every detail fuels the cold fire of strategy in my mind.
“I know enough. We need that part of you to survive what’s coming.”
“You don’t need that. Nobody does,” I growl, circling warily.
I feint left, watching his reaction. His movements are powerful but predictable. He’s used to being the predator. But the view from the top can be skewed. He forgets the underbelly is as vulnerable as the heart. I could slice him open. I’ve done it before—Wellhounds, people, even teenagers getting in my way.
“Hiding your strength endangers everyone,” he insists, voice hoarse.
The weight of my past, of what I am, threatens to crush me. Bodin glances at our audience. I seize the opening.
I run and leap. Eyes wide, he catches me instinctively, hands on my bottom. I yank his braids, throwing him off balance. He stumbles but doesn’t let go . . . probably instinct. Or because—oops—more of my shirt buttons have somehow popped during our fight. Smirking, I hook my legs around his waist, drawing us flush. Our bodies press together, lungs heaving, skin burning despite the cold. His gaze drops to the pillows of my half-exposed breasts squashed against him. A moan escapes—his or mine, I’m not sure.
Our eyes lock. The world melts away, leaving only us and this sizzling, demanding thing between us. It’s that needy place in my chest—and between my legs. Bodin wants me to embrace my instincts, but some are more powerful than killing and death. There’s life. The need for a pack. To care. My family tried teaching me, but I wasn’t ready until Fox. Now, I need to teach the remaining five Sluagh that we’re stronger together.
Darkness consumes us the moment we forget that.
Styx’s voice shatters the moment. “Looks like our little queen’s got you wrapped around her finger, Bodin!”
Bodin’s eyes widen. He drops me, shoving away. I use the momentum, spinning into a low sweep. It’s misdirection—myhand swipes a dagger from the snow. As he jumps to avoid my leg, I rise, blade whistling toward his face.
He grabs my wrist, twisting. I cry out, more surprised than hurt. His grip loosens, concern flashing across his face. Quick as lightning, I reverse the hold and slash his forearm. A thin red line appears.
