Page 38 of Bite Sized Bride
She is trembling, but she holds the knife. It looks impossibly large in her hand.
“The first lesson,” I say, moving to stand behind her, my body a wall of warmth at her back. “Is the stance.”
I place my hands on her shoulders, my touch as gentle as I can make it. I turn her to face an imaginary opponent, one of the twisted, shimmering trees. I move her feet with my own, positioning them shoulder-width apart. “Balance,” I grunt. “Power comes from the ground. Not the arm.”
We spend the next hour in the sickly green light of the glowing moss. I teach her. I show her how to hold the blade, how to use its edge, not its point. I show her where to strike—the throat, the eyes, the soft space under the arm. I move her body with my own, guiding her through the simple, brutal dance of combat.
She is a clumsy student at first, her movements stiff and awkward. But she is clever. She learns quickly. She listens to my guttural instructions, her brow furrowed in concentration. The fear in her eyes is slowly replaced by a focused determination.
I show her a simple parry, how to turn an opponent’s blade away. I stand before her, my massive forearm acting as the incoming sword.
“Block,” I command.
She raises the knife, her small arm trembling with the effort. She meets my arm, the steel scraping against my hardened hide.
“Again,” I say.
We repeat the motion, over and over. Her block becomes stronger, more confident. The blade is no longer a tool in her hand. It is becoming an extension of her will.
“Good,” I rumble, a strange, unfamiliar pride swelling in my chest.
She is flushed with exertion, her dark hair stuck to her temples with sweat, her eyes shining with a fierce, new light. She is no longer a survivor. She is a fighter.
The sight of her, so fierce, so alive, so full of a desperate, beautiful strength, triggers something in me. A memory, not of the ambush, not of the pain, but of this. Of training.
The sun is bright on the snow of the Stonefang valley. The air is clean and cold. I am sparring with her. My mate. Her name… her name is Lyra. She is a warrior, as fierce as any male in the clan. Her laughter is a wild, free thing as she ducks under my clumsy swing, the flat of her axe tapping me sharply on the ribs.
“Too slow, my love,” she teases, her eyes, the color of a winter sky, dancing with mischief. “You are thinking with your muscles, not your head.”
The memory is so vivid, so complete, that I stumble back, a low groan of pure, unadulterated grief tearing from my throat. The pain of it is a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
“Kael?” Mikana’s voice is sharp with alarm. She drops the knife, taking a step toward me, her face wearing a mask of concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I cannot speak. I press my hand to my chest, to the great, swirling scar that covers the heart that broke the day I lost her. The ghost of Lyra, of her laughter, of her touch, is a fresh, bleeding wound.
Mikana is before me now, her small hands on my arm. “Talk to me,” she pleads. “Please.”
I look at her, at the deep, unwavering empathy in her dark eyes. She is not afraid of my pain. She is not repulsed by my grief. She is simply… here.
And I know I have to tell her. She deserves the truth. She deserves to know about the ghost that haunts the man who has claimed her as his mate.
“I… remembered,” I say, the words sounding like a rough, painful rasp. “Her.”
Mikana’s face does not change. There is no jealousy, no anger. Only a quiet, patient waiting.
“My… mate,” I force the word out. It feels like a betrayal to say it to another. “Before. In my clan.”
I am terrified. I am terrified she will see herself as a replacement, a pale shadow of a memory she can never compete with. I am terrified she will pull away, that the fragile trust we have built will shatter.
She does not pull away. She moves closer, her hand sliding from my arm to rest over my heart, her warmth a steady presence against the cold ache of my grief.
“What was her name?” she asks softly.
The question is a gift. It is not an accusation. It is an invitation.
“Lyra,” I whisper, the name a ghost on my lips. “She was… the sun on the snow. She was… fierce. She taught me how to fight with my head, not just my fists.”
The memories pour out of me now, a torrent of broken words and raw emotion. I tell her about our mating, about the small hut we built with our own hands, about the child we had hoped for but never had. I tell her about the ambush, about watching her fall, her sky-blue eyes wide with a surprise that has haunted my every waking moment since.
