“You know, I was told by castle staff that you don’t allow people to watch you practice,” Iria said, her hands on her hips, the sword dangling from two fingers. “They say it’s so no one knows your secrets and tricks.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I told them it was probably because you were terrible and didn’t want anyone to know.”
He laughed, holding his hand out for her sword. “Let’s see then, shall we?” He looked at Mary as Iria dropped the dull blade into his hand. “If you’d like.”
“If you promise not to let me win.”
“Why would I let you win?”
A hint of a smile appeared on her face again, and he decided he would never let her win at anything, ever, if she was going to look at him like that.
“And let’s not tell my father I let you stay while we did this,” he said to Iria as he rolled his sleeves up.
“It’s your father who doesn’t want people to watch you?” Mary asked.
“He thinks a royal’s skills in battle are better kept a secret.”
“He may be right about that.”
He walked across the floor to stand in front of her. “I never thought I’d hear you say my father was right about anything.”
“Don’t tell him I said so.”
“Never.”
She began to lift her sword, then stopped, cocking her head. “What battle is he preparing you for? You don’t need a sword to battle the Ruined.”
“He used one against Wenda Flores.”
“I guess he did.” She arched an eyebrow. “Had you ever met a Ruined before Damian was captured?”
“No.” He glanced at Iria, uncomfortable having this conversation in front of a warrior. He held his sword out in front of him. “Are we sparring, or are we talking?”
Mary lifted her sword, narrowing her eyes.
Iria counted them down, and Mary made the first move. He easily blocked her.
She was deliberately being slow and careful at first, to assess how he handled himself. He could see it in the way she watched him. It was interesting, considering her temper seemed to get the best of her in other situations.
He lunged forward and she went back, the metal of their swords sounding off the walls as they met. He tried to back her into a corner, but she ducked suddenly, darting around to the other side of him.
Her eyes raged with something he didn’t quite understand as their swords met again. It was more than anger, and he couldn’t tell if it was directed at him. He hoped it wasn’t, because if it had been a real sword in her hand, she might have killed him.
He moved forward, obviously quicker than she had been expecting, because she stumbled and he lightly struck her on her left arm.
“One,” Iria said.
She took a step back, her breathing heavy. They circled each other, and he waited for her to lunge first again. When she came at him he met her blow, moving forward and back as she attacked.
He’d only ever sparred with his trainers and Galo, and it was different with Mary. He was distracted by the way a piece of hair had escaped from its knot and hung down her cheek. The pink in her cheeks. The sound of her breath.
She spun when he almost touched the sword to her chest, and he lifted his eyebrows, impressed. She grinned.
He ducked as she lunged at him again, the blade barely missing his head. He darted around and grabbed her hand, spinning her into his chest. He held down her arm as he lifted his blade to her throat. She gasped, snapping her head to the right. He could feel her sucking air in and out of her lungs against him, and her arm was warm and soft beneath his fingers. Her dark eyes burned into his, lighting up like they were on fire. He found himself staring at her lips, wishing he knew what they felt like on his.
“Should we leave?”
Iria’s voice snapped him out of his trance, and he quickly released Mary. Her gaze was downcast, and she was rubbing the spot where he’d touched her arm.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” Iria said. Somehow she always managed to make “Your Highness” seem like an insult. “Clearly you have nothing to be embarrassed about. When it comes to sword fighting, that is.”
He gave her an amused look. “Thank you, I think.”
“I think I’d like to spar with you more often,” Mary said. “You’re better than Iria.”
“I’m standing right here,” Iria said.
“You know he’s better than you,” Mary said with a laugh. She focused on him again, a hint of a challenge in her expression. “I think he’s used to being better than everyone.”
“Galo often gives it a very good shot,” he said, unable to keep a smile off his face. “Would you like to go again?”
“Absolutely.”
SEVENTEEN
EM PULLED THE door shut behind her as she exited her rooms, the sound echoing down the hallway. Her dress caught under her heel, and she yanked it free with a little more force than was necessary.
Iria appeared around the corner, her gaze falling to the rip Em had just created at the hem of her dress. “What did that dress ever do to you?” she asked with a hint of amusement.
Em wasn’t in the mood to be amused. It had been several days since her visit to Damian, and she hadn’t even been able to talk to the king once. He just brushed her off every time she approached him.