Page 80 of Kissed By the Gods
I exhale sharply, turning my eyes forward. “Nothing’s happening.”
“Maybe not yet,” he says.
“It’s the bond from the unnaming ceremony,” I say. “It’s stirred up all these feelings. You know?”
Leif looks at me like I sprouted wings. “No,” he says, flatly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“When you mixed blood with Thalric, you didn’t like, change a little? You can’t feel him?”
Leif’s eyebrows wing straight up into his hairline. “I’m sorry. What?”
Now it’s my turn be confused. “You know. Like a … current? An awareness? A weird sense that he’s close, or?—”
“Leina,” he cuts in. “No. I cannotfeelThalric because of the unnaming ceremony. The cuts are just symbolic.”
My stomach knots. “Oh.”
Leif narrows his eyes. “Wait. You can feel Ryot?”
“No!” I say, far too fast. “Not—no. Not feel him. Just … sense him. Maybe. Occasionally.”
Leif’s looking more bewildered and freaked out by the second, and now panic rises in my chest at the realization that this connection isn’t normal, isn’t part of the oath.
“I’ve had weird dreams my whole life,” I tell him. “It’s nothing. It’s always nothing.”
He looks at me doubtfully.
“It’s nothing,” I say again, and I ignore the hint of desperation that lines my voice.
We both jolt when the door to the training grounds bangs open, and one of the men from Atherclad stalks inside, Tyrston on his heels.
His gaze falls on me, and it’s not kind. “Do you two have permission to be late?” he growls at us. Tyrston glares behind the man’s back, like he’d be glad to watch us receive a whipping.
Leif turns on his heel toward the door. “Yes,” he says curtly, and shoves open the door to the training grounds, dragging me behind him. I think Leif is even more nervous about Tyrston than I am. The other ward definitely doesn’t like me, but for the most part we barely see each other.
The Atherclad man grumbles something about how soft Stormriven is as we dart past him, and Tyrston’s vicious eyes follow us until the door closes. We break into a run when we both see that the grounds are full, morning meal well and truly over. Godsdammit, making it through a full day of training without a meal is going to be a bitch.
We sprint toward the Rav’eth section, and skid to a stop when we burst through the iron gate to find the session is in full swing—literally.
Nyrica’s in the ring, lazily striking arcs with his axe as Faelon circles him with his daggers. Faelon darts in and out, his footwork smooth and taunting, each strike designed to irritate more than injure. To the side, Kiernan’s soaked in sweat, chest heaving as he powers through a round of pushups. His shirt’s discarded, and his skin is streaked with dust. Kiernan’s the only one who looks over at us when we enter.
Of course, Thalric still doesn’t miss us.
“You’re late,” he clips, arms crossed. He doesn’t turn around.
We don’t answer. There’s no excuse worth giving, and he wouldn’t listen even if there was. Leif peels off toward the weapons racks, already reaching for the cover that will blunt hisblade. I follow, scythe still clutched in my hand because I never did get it holstered properly.
In the ring, Faelon and Nyrica are still going. Faelon ducks under a wild swing, rolls, and pops back up grinning like this is the best part of his day. Nyrica doesn’t chase him. He pivots, lets the axe drag through the dirt, and waits for Faelon to try something clever again.
I grip my scythe a little tighter, trying to focus, to breathe, but my eyes betray me. They drag toward Ryot. He’s off to the side, talking with Caius. But he’s … off, somehow. His posture is too stiff, not fluid at all. He turns to me, jerkily, like he can feel the heat from my gaze.
“Leina,” he says.
I incline my head, careful to keep my expression blank, neutral. Not that it stops my pulse from slamming against my ribs like a war drum.
“Master,” I answer.
I don’t miss the way his eyes narrow, the way his midnight blue eyes bleed into storm black.
