Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Antonetta spun to look at him so quickly that her hair flew in strands of spun gold around her face. “Of course I am interested in power,” she said hotly. “Everyone is interested in power. Power allows us to chart our own course, make our own choices. And look at my other choices, Kellian. They are few and constraining. I feel them close in on me like the walls of a labyrinth.” She tugged at the locket around her throat. “That is what is fascinating about you,” she said. “You don’t seem to want anything at all.”

“Of course I want things.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears. They were leaning into each other, he realized. As close as they had been all those years ago, behind the statue at her debut ball. When he had realized how far away from him she had gone.

But now she moved closer to him. Deliberately. A step and another step, bringing her head to just under his chin. He could feel the heat of her body, smell the heady scent of her perfume and her skin combined. See where the silk of her dress clung to her breasts, to the curve and dip of her waist, pulling tight across her hips.

She looked up at him. She looked nervous, and there seemed no artifice in it, no affectation. She laid a hand on his shoulder. It was a light touch, but it sent heat spiraling through his body. Through the pounding in his ears, he heard her say his name, Kellian, and without being able to help it, he reached to touch her.

His hand found the indent of her waist. He could feel a line of silk-covered buttons rough against his palm as he held her there, his hand resting just above the flare of her hip, as if he meant to balance her in a dance. The silk felt just as he pictured under his fingers, though he had not properly imagined the warmth of it, heated by its contact with her skin, nor the ache he would feel at the warmth and curve of her, a pressure in the back of his throat, in his belly. There was a haze in front of his eyes. All he could think of was drawing her closer.

And then she winced.

“Ana—are you all right?” He drew his hand back, a little awkwardly.

“It’s nothing,” she said, but she was white around the mouth. If there was anything Kel knew when he saw it, it was pain.

“You’re hurt,” Kel said, a faint buzzing in his ears. “Antonetta, tell me—did someone harm you—”

“No. No. It’s nothing like that.”

“Tell me,” he said again. “Or I’ll get Lin, have her look at you.”

Antonetta pushed out her bottom lip the way she had when she was young and they had refused to let her pretend to be the head of the Arrow Squadron and give them all orders. “Oh, all right,” she said, and twisted about, as having some odd sort of convulsion. It took Kel a moment to realize she was flicking open the row of small buttons that ran down the side of her dress, from just beneath her arm to her waist.

“There,” she said, turning so that he could see her bare side through the parted silk, the smooth curve of her waist into silk-covered hips. Along her rib cage was a short, angry-looking cut—a dark-red line against pale skin.

Kel knew pain. He also knew sword wounds.

“A blade made that cut,” he said. “How?”

“Sword practice,” she said. “I used to love sword training when I was a girl—maybe you remember, though it’s all right if you don’t. I had to cease training when we all stopped being friends and my mother took over everything I did. She said no one would want to marry a girl who could swing a sword. But I missed it, and sometimes, now, I sneak away and train down in the city. My mother knows nothing about it. But when I do it, everything else falls away—the pressures of marriage, of etiquette, of being an Alleyne. I am just Antonetta, who is learning to fight.”

“Can I touch you?” he asked. She looked surprised for a moment before nodding. He traced the cut lightly with his fingertips; her skin was warm, but not hot. No fever or infection, then. Just a crimson line, an incongruous mark in the context of silk and softness.

His blood was heating again. He told himself not to be a savage; she was injured. And yet her skin was like the silk on which her family had built its empire. He did not want to stop touching her.

“Talk to your dressmaker,” he said. “Lin is discreet. She won’t tell anyone. But you must have this bandaged. In the meantime, wash the cut with honey and warm water. When I have been injured before—”

“Have you been injured often?” she asked, looking up at him with wide blue eyes.

Kel froze. He had almost mistaken himself, almost forgotten that she was not talking to Kel Saren—she was talking to Kel Anjuman. A lazy, minor noble of Marakand, who lived off the kindness of House Aurelian, and had no reason to bear a multitude of scars.

Years ago, Antonetta had told him to make more of himself. And he was more than she knew. He had resented her for her artifice, for showing a false face to the world. Yet he’d never acknowledged that he was doing the same thing. He had become so used to lying that it was not simply second nature; it was first. Everything he told her, even when it was the truth, had a lie at its heart.

Lady Alleyne had been right all those years ago, but not for the reasons she thought. There was no future for him with Antonetta. There was no future for him with anyone.

She seemed to see a change in his face. She looked away, biting her lip, her hands suddenly fluttering nervously. “We ought to go back,” she said. “Can you help me do up my dress?”

He did not want to do it. It was dangerous to be so close to Antonetta. Even now, the urge to take her in his arms was overpowering; she would be soft and hot to touch; he could take her by her silk-covered hips, lift her up against him. Stop the ache in his heart and his body with sensation so powerful it obliterated all thought.

No. He was not Charlon; he could control himself. Could behave as if nothing was troubling him, as if he had no weakness where she was concerned. He had acted more difficult parts.

He turned to the row of tiny buttons that required his attention, and focused on pushing them through their small silk loops, rather than focusing on Antonetta. She stood very still, bracing herself against the crates in front of her; as Kel glanced up, he saw the label on one of them flash white in the dimness.

Antonetta looked over her shoulder at him. “Is everything all right?”

“Just fine.” As he rose to his feet, he settled her tousled hair around her shoulders, his hand brushing the clasp of the gold chain at the back of her throat. “Do you think . . .”

“What?” She turned around, her face open, questioning. His stomach felt sick with wanting and guilt.

“I could speak to Conor,” he said. “Even Mayesh. See if there’s a way to protect your Charter so you could hold on to it, even if you don’t marry.”

She smiled at him, luminous in the dark. “That’s not necessary. I’m not entirely out of ideas yet.” She glanced around the room. “I’ve realized—I do know where we are. Come along.”

He followed her from the room. A series of twisting corridors brought them back to the party, where a peculiar sight met their eyes. The room, with its divans and flowing curtains, was mostly empty: The terrace doors had been thrown open and the guests were outside, crowded up against the stone railings.