She rolls her eyes at me but mine are locked on her. “I don’t need luck when it’s you I’m competing against,” she says coolly, her growing smile smug. I can’t help but huff out a laugh. After a moment too long, I let her go, and she turns to face the target with a smile. When I don’t move to nock an arrow, she throws an expectant glance at me to which I respond with a gesture towards the target. “Ladies first.”
“Oh right. I forgot you were a gentleman.” She snorts before nocking an arrow. I cock my head, watching her as she holds the bow as if she is left-handed, though I know she isn’t.
Interesting.
I blink, and an arrow is sailing through the air, landing just shy of the bullseye. She places another arrow on the bow and pulls back, taking a deep breath. She shuts her eyes for a moment, only firing when she opens them. Bullseye. I watch her follow the same routine with her final arrow. Watch her arm strain as she pulls the bowstring back. Watch her eyes flutter shut in concentration. Watch her breathe deeply before sending another arrow sinking into the bullseye.
Damn.
Archery has never been my favorite, and clearly, Paedyn doesn’t feel the same. She’s a natural. So confident, so controlled, as if the bow is nearly an extension of her arm. The arrow obeys her as she wills it to land exactly where she wants.
And I’m suddenly thinking she’s right. I might lose this.
“You’re up.” She steps back beside me, and with a mocking whisper, says, “Good luck, Azer.”
Plagues knows I’ll need it.
I step up and settle an arrow onto my bow. I can feel her eyes on me, tracking every move I make and it’s annoyingly distracting. I pull the bowstring back, aim, and fire. Then I’m cursing under my breath for just barely missing the bullseye before I nock another arrow. This one follows the same pattern, and I’m now frustrated and feeling the overwhelming need to punch something. I fire my last arrow and it finally lands where I want it to. Barely. Its silver tip sinks into the farthest edge of the bullseye, guided by sheer luck to get it there.
Paedyn doesn’t say a word as she steps up and fires her next three arrows. And just as before, two hit the bullseye, one just shy of it. She’s mesmerizing to watch, to witness her work with this weapon.
I am going to lose. I don’t like losing.
And Paedyn knows it too. She walks past, smiling at me as if she’s already won. And she probably has. I take my time firing my next three shots, trying to concentrate and calm my breathing before letting them fly towards the target. Not helping. Two on the rings, one on the bullseye.
I glare at the target while Paedyn grins. She nocks an arrow as she says, “Now I see why you wanted to stick with hand-to-hand. You knew you had a better chance of winning that.”
She’s not wrong. Archery has never been my favorite or my forte. She’s still smiling as she focuses her attention on the target, calming her breathing before she even draws the bowstring back.
There is no way I’m winning this.
I fight a small smile at my sudden idea.
If I’m going to lose, I might as well have some fun.
I take a step towards her. Then I slowly step behind her—close behind her. My chest presses against her back at the same moment I let my hand lazily find her waist. She jumps at the sudden contact, and I laugh softly, close to her ear.
“What are you doing?” Her words are breathless, but she doesn’t move, frozen against me.
My lips are close to her ear as I murmur, “Distracting you.”
She lets out a forced laugh, feigning confidence. “I told—” Words fail her when my hand begins exploring farther along her waist, her abdomen, atop her thin tank. She swallows. “I told you I don’t get distracted.”
“Yes,” my fingers begin tracing lazy circles up and down her side, “and I could have sworn you tapped your left foot as you said it.” I lean in even closer, whispering against her ear, “And we both know that means you’re lying.”
The truth is, I’m the one lying. Her foot is the last thing I’m paying attention to. But I know she’s lying nonetheless, and I’m going to prove it.
“Well,” she clears her throat, trying to concentrate on forming words and not my fingers, “you’re wrong.” And with that unsure remark, she lifts her bow and draws the string.
I wrap an arm around her waist, slowly, and let my other hand brush from her knuckles curved around the bowstring all the way to her straining shoulder. With her body still pressed against mine, I feel a shiver snake up her spine as my fingers dance slowly up and down her arm. I smile against her ear, and I know she feels that too since she huffs in annoyance.
I feel her take a deep, shaky breath as she tries to calm down, tries to pull herself together. And then she fires. I chuckle against her ear when the arrow lands the farthest away from the bullseye yet. She whips her head around so our faces are mere inches apart and scowls at me. I’m amused, smiling as I let my eyes wander over her face, catching on every faint freckle and dark lash framing her blue eyes.
Then those ocean eyes tear from mine when she turns back to the target, grabbing another arrow. But she never tries to step out of my grasp. She’s too stubborn. If she moves now, she knows it will only prove just how much I truly distract her.
So, she nocks the next arrow and breathes as the breeze blows a strand of silver hair into her face. I reach around and gently, slowly, tuck it behind her ear as I whisper into it, “Why is it that you’re shooting with your left hand?” It’s a random question, used to distract as well as satisfy my curiosity.
She takes a deep breath before answering, “Would you believe me if I said it’s because I wanted to go easy on you?”
I laugh, shaking my head before resting my chin on her shoulder. “Liar. You would never go easy on me.”
“You’re right about that.” She exhales a shaky laugh. “My father taught me to shoot with both hands and after my injury in the Trial, I figured I should practice more with my left.”
And with that, she doesn’t hesitate before pulling back and firing the arrow, hitting far outside the bullseye with a soft thud. “Don’t. Say. A. Word,” she mutters through clenched teeth, not bothering to look at me as she grabs another arrow angrily.
“I wasn’t going to say a thing,” I say with mock innocence.
“Liar. I can practically feel you smirking.”
My lips are against the shell of her ear, and I am, in fact, smirking. “I can’t help it when I’m right.”
She’s still fiddling angrily with the arrow, her voice deceptively sweet as she says, “Well if you keep smirking like that, I’m going to turn around and point this arrow at your heart.”
I smile at her sentiment, my fingers continuing to draw circles across her stomach. She takes another shallow breath, about to pull back and fire when I mumble, “Yeah, well at least you might be able to hit my heart, unlike the bullseye—”