The training-grounds were less noisy than usual, and the rattling of weapons was silenced by distance, as the younger warriors battled in the distant half. Lucian had selected the inner angle--of course he had. Fewer eyes, fewer interruptions. Only him. Only me.
"Pick up the blade." He spoke sharply, with command, but his eyes told something different--they showed the slightest movement of something--which was almost like worry. I picked up the wooden training sword, and the weight of the weight was not new. He went around, like a predator checking out the size of its prey. All nerves in my body were on the alert.
"You're too stiff," he murmured. Now he spoke in a low and personal tone, as though it were to me alone. Unless you are flexible, you can break any time the pressure is applied. He got behind me and his chest rubbed against my back. My breath hitched. Slide the hands of Lucian along my arms, and changed my hold of the sword. His palms are coarse, and warm--searing. Relax here, he said, pressing a little at my shoulders, pushing them down. "Breathe. Hold the weapon as part of one self. I strove to attend to what he said, when how could I, when every inch of him pressed so near?
The odor of his being--earth, steel, and a deeper, darker--covered me, intoxicating. Better, said he, his breath passing through the shell of my ear. My knees nearly buckled. He kicked my feet open with a sudden jerk, and threw me wide. "Balance," he said firmly. "If I push you—" He shoved lightly at my back. I fell, but he reached out with his arm and struck me on the breast before I hit the ground. My heart beat was intensified and I looked at him with my face close to him. You can hold your ground, you should be able to hold your ground.
There was strain, too, in his voice, and he seemed to be reminding himself no less than I. Perhaps you would better leave me alone, then: I said to myself before I could restrain myself. There was something flashing in his eyes. His lips stretched open like he might bridge the gap between us, in one heartbeat. Then he retreated, and the wall fell down once more. Again, he spat, not the man, as it was now the Alpha King who had nearly kissed me last night. Much needed to come out of my chest. I upheld the sword, and I was not concentrating on the hand that was holding it--I was concentrating on him. The manner in which his muscles clutched his tunic, the manner in which his jaw knotted each time his eyes met mine too long. He was struggling with something and I was not sure whether I wanted him to succeed or not.
At the close of the session, I was sweating up my back and my arms were sore and tired. Lucian was near, and his chest was heaving, and a sweat was on his brow. He extended his hand and touched me, pushing a wet curl of hair against the side of my face before stopping himself, halting halfway. Our eyes locked. The air was electric again. Too close. Too dangerous. And so, like that--he shifted his head, with a coarse voice. "Training's over." However, when I sheathed the sword my heart made me realize the reality that he was unwilling to say: it was no longer training. It was a fight, which either of us could not afford to lose.