I open my mouth, then snap it closed. My face burns as hot as the torch flame lighting the room. “You’re concerned about my wedding night?” As I say it, I want to hide. He can’t truly be weighing this as part of our mission.
He exhales, releasing a strained breath. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to. Not even for the mission.” His eyebrows pull together. “The ceremony is still nearly two months away. I feel, if we work hard, you’ll be trained before that night.”
I nod, understanding. My eyes dance around the chamber, looking everywhere but at him.
“But,” he continues, “if you’re already feeling something for Sebastian—love, maybe—then there’s no reason why you can’t go ahead and marry him.”
I force my eyes to meet his. “Devlan, all that I have thought about since I saw my father on that damned monitor is saving him.” I grip my hilt. “There is no room in this mission for love, correct?” I study his face closely.
A muscle jumps along his jawline as his mouth tenses. “That’s how I see it. But—”
“Then it’s settled.” I turn my back to him and raise my sword. “I do not wish to marry Sebastian. I do not wish to bed him, not even for the mission. And I want to save my father as soon as possible.” I swipe my blade through the air, then face him. “Now, show me how to use this thing before I start practicing with it on your sour face.”
He blinks. “Right.” He nods once, his face unreadable, then his lips quirk into a slight smile. Clearing his throat, he takes a few steps backward. “But, Zara. Just know that you are free to do whatever you wish.” His firm stare backs his words.
I nod, and examine my sword. “How am I to stand?”
He slides his sword into his belt. Sidling up behind me, he reaches around and grasps my right hand. “You’re short.” I huff, and he chuckles. “It’s not an insult. I’m only stating the obvious, and that you must learn to do things differently than those twice, maybe three times your height.”
“Hah. Hah. Enough. I’m short.”
He chuckles and releases the sword. His hand brushes my hair over my shoulder, and his fingers skim the back of my neck. My skin prickles at the feel of his light touch, and I take in an uneven breath.
“It’s not entirely a disadvantage,” he says. I try to focus on his words as his warm breath caresses my neck. “If you own it, it can be a great advantage over a taller foe.” He covers my hand with his and points the sword straight out. “Always be in a fighting stance, or on guard. Have all your body parts tucked in tightly.” His foot taps mine, and I move it in, under my body.
“Now this”—his finger taps the metal bar above the hilt, just below the blade—“is your crossguard. It prevents your hand from sliding up the blade, and protects your hand by keeping your opponent’s blade from sliding down the blade. It won’t fully protect you, however, unless you’re also wielding a shield. But it gives some measure of defense. Since you’re smaller, you’ll handle a short sword more efficiently. You may go up against a knight wielding a longsword at some point, so I’ll teach you how to use your dagger to compensate for the difference.”
Already I feel my brain swallowing me. I practice holding my sword as instructed, and he moves in front of me, extending his. “Use your short stature to force your foe to expose weaknesses and openings to strike.”
He slides our swords together. The shrill ring of metal sliding against metal heightens my senses. “If I were fighting someone of equal height, I’d try to knock their sword to the side.” He demonstrates.
“But you want to confuse them. Tap up and to the side, opening their body to you. This will also force them to move slower, figuring out how to counter to deflect you.”
He nods encouragingly, and I tap his sword upward and over. “Good,” he says. “See, my center is exposed. Now lunge.”
I do, stopping the point of my blade right before his chest.
His eyes squint as he smiles. “Nice. Now, the torso is the main goal, but you have much more you can do by using your height to your advantage.” He slides our swords together again. “Targeting limbs is a wise move. You can’t best them with strength, so you want to disarm them. Force their arm down and at an angle so they have no choice but to expose their hand from around the guard.”
He does this by tapping my sword down, but I keep my arm level. “See, you have the advantage. You are already low to the ground.”
I glare.
“But they are not,” he adds quickly. “Because they must lower their sword, they expose their wrist, and it’s the quickest and closest body part to strike.” He nods. “Go ahead. Try it.”
I take a deep breath and tap his sword toward the ground. I see what he’s saying. Excitement flutters in my chest as his wrist becomes visible behind the crossguard. I eagerly thrust—only stopping my sword from connecting too late.
“Shit—”
“Oh.” I drop the sword. “Devlan, are you all right? I tried to pull it back.”
He wraps his hand around his injured wrist. “I guess I should’ve told you just how badly that hurts.” He shakes out his hand. A strained laugh escapes his lips. “Let’s stop it before, shall we?”
My face flames, and I anchor my fists to my hips. “Yes, wise teacher. Maybe you should explain thoroughly before telling your student to ‘go ahead.’” I scowl, but can’t help the smile breaking through my twitching lips.
Devlan crooks a smile, his eyes a light and clear blue. “Touché.”
After he shows me a few more moves, we dance back and forth over the stone floor. Forward and backward as we tap blades. I never knew sword fighting was so enjoyable. I love the feel of the sword in my hand, and the fact that my height doesn’t appear to be a weakness. Rather, I’ve learned I have more angles of attack; my foe will have to compensate, not me.
The side of Devlan’s blade swats my forearm. “In,” he orders monotonically, reminding me to keep my arm behind the crossguard.
I roll my shoulder and come at him again. He retreats, and I see his foot still in attack position. I quickly tap his sword upward and drive mine down, capturing his toe beneath the tip of my blade. “In,” I mock.
Devlan’s eyes gleam. Before I can gloat further, he knocks my blade to the side and circles it with his own, relieving me of my weapon. As it falls, he dives forward, catching it with his free hand.
He crosses the blades, his hands before his chest, and advances. I retreat until my back hits the wall. He blocks me in, blades on either side of my head.
“Never. Take. Your eyes. Off your opponent.” His own eyes lock with mine, and his heavy breaths fan my face, my lips.
His dark hair falls across his forehead into his eye, and I nearly lift my hand to brush it aside. Balling my hand into a fist by my thigh, I stop myself from reaching out. His smile fades as his eyes roam the features of my face. His lips part slightly, and his face moves closer.
My breath stills in my lungs.
He drops the swords to his sides. Then he tilts his head as his face nears mine. Our cheeks nearly touch—my skin a live current as his lips brush my ear. “You’ve forgotten about your secret weapon.”
My breath whooshes out. “Damn. I forgot about my dagger.” I could’ve easily grabbed it and…I don’t know. Maybe thrown it at him to get away.
Tilting his head back, his eyes stare at me through half-lidded slits. His finger traces up my arm, sending shivers dancing along my spine. “I wasn’t referring to your dagger.”
I squint, and his finger slowly backtracks down its heated trail. “A woman has a disarming weapon that, I firmly believe, no man is capable of resisting.”