Page 97 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“But don’t worry,” he added with a wink, stepping back, “we’ll work on that too.”
“Pardon?”
“Glad to know you have manners somewhere in there, Vallorian. We’ll start with sparring at dawn. The Crux. Don’t be late.”
“Training with you?” She balked.
Fucking fuck.
“Professor’s orders, partner,” he said, already sauntering away. “And leave that attitude at the door, or I’ll have you on your back again.”
Dawson Fucking Knox.
Twenty-Four
The following day, Alaire entered the Crux before dawn, the sky a veil of unbroken black.
She’d gone back to the exact spot in the gardens first thing, but only pristine grass glistening with dew had greeted her.
Had she imagined it?
She rubbed her arms, winter’s chill sinking its claws into the air. The room’s warmth had barely begun to thaw her when she felt him. Alaire forced her limbs to stay loose at her sides.
Dawson waited on the mat, arms crossed. Something in her chest stirred. Why did he have to tie his hair back like that? She didn’t need a better view of the carved lines of his cheekbones or the faint shadow of stubble. Her fingers itched to thread through the strands that always fell loose.
Focus.
She forced her gaze to his weapons. In the light, the sweeping black etchings on his broadsword mirrored the ink peeking from beneath his cuffs. When his turquoise eyes caught hers, the challenge in them made her stomach flip.
Heat crept up her neck—infuriating.
His gaze swept over her slowly—boots, leathers, calloused hands—before lingering on her mouth. Her breath faltered. When he looked up again, something fierce and hungry burned there.
His lips twitched, a phantom smile as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
“You’re late,” Dawson said, approaching with the effortless grace of a hunter. She felt his stare in her bones.
“Right on time, actually.” She lifted her chin.
“Summon your magic.” His tone left no room for refusal.
Alaire’s lips curved. “Bold of you to assume I take orders.”
He tapped his boot against the mat. “That wasn’t optional. Summon. Your. Magic.”
“No,” she said flatly, folding her arms. She wouldn’t admit her failure to him—couldn’t admit it to herself.
“Must everything with you be a fight?” he growled. “Or do you just like sparring with me?”
More than I should.
“You enjoy this, don’t you?” Alaire said. “The chase. The game. Pushing people around like pieces on your chessboard. But I’m no pawn. And I’ll never be yours to sacrifice.”
“But it’s a game, though, isn’t it, Firework?” he countered. “Politics, power, court, survival—it’s all a deadly game. What matters are the stakes.”
“And what’s at stake for you?”
“Everything.”
