Delaney stood in the open doorway to a massive training room, scanning the walls covered in different types of gear and the many floor mats that sectioned off each corner of the room. At the very center there was a round table covered in weird electronic devices, the only recognizable one being a clear-screened computer panel.
Everything was done in white and tones of silver, which she thought highly illogical considering what this room’s purpose was.
Trystan was already wrapping his hands in strips of white material, similar to how a boxer would before going a few rounds with a punching bag.
Only, in this case the punching bag was going to be Delaney. Hence her immediate refusal. Sparring with Ruckus was one thing. The idea of purposefully and willingly putting herself in Trystan’s space was asinine.
“I have something better than money to motivate you with.” He finished up on his second hand. When he turned around, he was flashing that wicked grin. “I have threats.”
Very true … Blackmail, while not ideal, was a good motivator.
“Now”—he motioned her closer with a curl of his fingers, lifting the roll of white material with his other hand—“come here so we can get you ready.”
“Pretty sure that’s not going to help prepare me,” she mumbled, loud enough that he caught it and chuckled. Knowing further argument would be useless, she made her way over to him, stopping with a good five feet still between them.
Trystan rolled his eyes and breached the space. Lifting her left hand, he slowly began wrapping the material around her palm. His touch was gentle yet firm, like he was trying hard not to spook her or give her reason to pull away.
“My Tellers were supposed to have come at you from behind, catching you off guard. Forcing you into a hand-to-hand altercation so that I could see what stage you were at. Of course, you went and changed that plan, but that’s all right. It saves me from having to find a way to test your shooting abilities.”
“Again,” she drawled, yanking her left hand back once he’d finished, but allowing him to take up her right, “you could have just asked.”
“That’s boring,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up. He kept his gaze on what he was doing, giving her the rare opportunity to inspect him without him staring back.
She’d noticed the purple blotches beneath his eyes before. Had they gotten worse? His hair was carefully smoothed back like it always was, but he was sporting a five-o’clock shadow. She’d never seen him anything but clean-shaven. In fact, she’d never seen him anything but completely put together. Even when she’d visited him in the hospital after he’d taken the zee for her, his hair and demeanor had been impeccable.
“You’re staring.” His voice jolted her out of her thoughts, but he was still focused on wrapping her hand.
“You’re going to mess up your hair,” was what she mustered up as an explanation, wincing at how lame it was. It also didn’t help that she’d just made it blatantly obvious that she’d noticed.
He finished his task and lifted his gaze, keeping the tips of her fingers in his a moment longer. “Sometimes things get messy.”
She pictured Ruckus’s face and forced herself to pull away.
If the rejection bothered him, he didn’t show it. Instead he moved over toward the large mat in the far left corner. He waited until she’d followed and was standing nearby before taking position in the center.
“Come at me,” he ordered, and when she merely lifted a brow, he clenched his jaw. “Do it. Show me what the Ander has supposedly taught you. I doubt it’s very much.”
“Okay.” She held out a finger but stepped onto the thick white foam. “I see what you’re doing, and I’d just like to point out that reverse psychology will not work on me. However, I have wanted to punch you for a very long time now. So…”
She rushed him without giving any more warning, letting out a startled sound when he dodged out of the way faster than she could blink. Dropping to her knees, she used her left leg to swipe at his ankles, annoyed further when he easily jumped over her. By the time she stood up again, he was silently laughing at her.
“This isn’t funny,” she stated, hating herself for feeling the need to.
“You’re right,” he agreed with another chuckle, holding his fists in front of him. “The fact that you’re missing isn’t. The fact that you’re so adorable doing it is. Come on, Delaney, you have to be better than that.”
She punched forward, already anticipating that he’d dodge in the opposite direction. Her other fist shot out, only to be blocked by his forearm.
“Better,” he said. “Keep trying.”
She ground her teeth, determined to land at least one punch before they were through.
* * *
“WE’RE GOING TO make this a routine thing,” he told her an hour later while he unwrapped his hands.
She was busy panting, bent over, sweat slicked over her body and making her clothes stick uncomfortably. The asshole wasn’t even close to out of breath. She tore at the bandages and dropped them to the floor, glaring at him the whole time even though he wasn’t looking.
“I hate you.”
“You should consider learning a new tune, Lissa,” he said. “That one’s getting old. And remember: You’re pretty sure you hate me now. Backtracking is against the rules.”
He reached for her then, and when his fingers unstuck a strand of hair from the side of her face, he smiled. It wasn’t his usual smile though; it was close-lipped and almost … sweet.
“What now?” she blurted.
“We shower.” At her look he held up both hands and took a deliberate retreating step. “Separately. There’s a locker room straight through that door over there.”
The door he indicated was set in the center of the right wall, and a quick glance on the opposite wall showed there was an identical one leading to a different room.
“I’ll be in there,” he confirmed, pointing to the other door. “You have fifteen minutes.”
“And then you’re coming in after me.” She waved at him and headed away. “Yeah, yeah. Speaking of new tunes.”
“I’ll work on that,” he said.
She hadn’t been expecting him to agree, but when she turned back, he was already twisting the knob and disappearing into the adjoining room. Deciding she was reading too far into it, that his sudden good mood could have been brought on by any number of things, she continued to the locker room.
Inside she found a row of shower stalls, a wall made of cubby holes and clothing racks, and a line of benches. There was only one set of clean clothes there, so it was obvious what she was supposed to change into.
The shampoo that’d been left in each of the stalls smelled floral, but she couldn’t place the scent. The body wash was similar, only with a hint of something sharp and citrusy added in. The combination of the aroma and the hot water cascading across her now aching muscles made her want to stay there forever.
Too soon she was trudging out of the stall, towel-drying off, and donning the new clothes. There was a comb over by the row of sinks, and she quickly untangled her hair.
She must have rushed more than she’d thought, for when she returned to the training room, she found it empty.
The door leading out and into the halls was still open, but she only considered sneaking out for half a second before rejecting the idea. There was nowhere for her to go, really, and as much as she hated it, being with Trystan was the safest place for her right now.
She filled the extra time by inspecting the equipment hanging on the walls. Some of it she recognized from the training rooms in the Vakar palace; others were a complete mystery. Then a particular armband caught her attention.
It was slightly thicker than the fritzes everyone wore on their wrists, with a strange pattern carved into the face of it. When she lifted it from the wall, she found it lighter than she’d expected.
“That’s a fru.” Trystan came up behind her and she almost dropped it.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, going to replace the cuff. He stopped her by touching her wrist lightly, and she let him take the band.
“It’s a shield,” he elaborated, as if she hadn’t spoken, turning the metal around in his hands. “It’s activated in a similar way as a fritz, by waving the top of your hand over the censor, here.” He tapped one of the symbols, and she realized it was different from the rest.
“Why don’t you wear one?” she asked, checking his bare arms just to be sure. Aside from the single band on his right wrist, he didn’t have anything else on.
“I do sometimes.” He shrugged. “Would you like to see it in action?”
It couldn’t hurt, so she agreed and he moved a few feet away. He unlatched the cuff and clicked it easily around his lower bicep, right above the curve of his elbow. The metal seemed to morph so that it fit perfectly around his body, and a single blue light flashed once to indicate it was ready for use.
Trystan waved his hand over the censor, and with a sizzling sound a giant hologram projected from the band. It was ovular, almost like a surfboard, and stretched a few inches over his head and all the way down to the tips of his toes so that it barely scraped the floor. It was wide enough that as long as his body was angled, he could easily keep himself protected, and see-through so that he didn’t have to risk peering around the edge to locate the enemy.
Unsurprisingly, it was neon blue around the edges, the color fading to silver closer to the center, making it easier to see the other side.
“It’s massive.” She tilted her head back to see the top of it.
“The censor picks up on the height of the bearer, so it can stretch the shield the same length as the person using it. The force field is always safe to touch on my side, but I can turn the shock feature on and off on yours.”
“That way if you’re in close quarters with friendlies, you don’t have to worry about accidentally zapping them,” she guessed.
“Precisely.” He smiled, this time with none of the usual filler. It was just a genuine friendly smile.
Which she hated, because they couldn’t be friends. She wouldn’t let them be after seeing Ruckus’s face.
“One moment,” he said, suddenly distracted. His gaze shifted off to the side, and she waited for whatever telepathic communication he was having to end. He’d showered, so his blond hair was damp and slicked back, a shade darker than it usually was. The hot water had done something for his pale pallor, adding a bit of flush to his cheeks.
He looked a thousand times better than he had prior, and she was annoyed at herself for noticing. It was because she was looking, however, that she saw the second his expression darkened.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as he came out of it.
He cleared his throat, shut down the fru, and reached over her head to replace it on the wall. It hadn’t ever seemed like he’d needed to buy time before speaking, but it was clear that was what he was doing now.
“Apparently my father has called,” he told her, and while his voice was firm, there was an underlying hint of worry. “He’s onscreen in the conference room, waiting for us.”
“Us?” She did not like the sound of that.
“Yes.” He glanced around the room while he adjusted the hem of his shirt and smoothed down the material of his pants at his thighs.
“Trystan?” She frowned, watching him continue to search their surroundings as if there was something there he might be forgetting.
After running his hand through his hair, his fingers trailed across his jaw to the five o’clock shadow and he noticeably blanched.
She would have been certain she’d misinterpreted, if not for the fact that doubt lingered in his eyes. Finally, when he went to glance over his shoulder toward the locker room he’d showered in, she’d had enough.
“Cut it out.” She tugged lightly on his forearm to get him to turn back to her. “You being self-conscious is making me self-conscious.”
“You don’t understand—” He seemed to realize he was saying this out loud and abruptly cut himself off. A flash of that familiar distaste morphed his expression, though it was obviously aimed at himself this time.
“Sure I do,” she corrected him with a single shoulder shrug, trying to lighten the mood. “I have an overbearing dad, too. Does yours judge you for your choice in clothing, hairstyle, and just about every other decision you make about your life? Yeah? Awesome. Mine, too. Peas in a pod.”
“I don’t—” He stopped a second time, shook his head, and got back on track. “Our situations are different. For one, my father is a Rex.”
“Blah, blah, blah.” She waved a hand in the air and headed toward the exit. “So your daddy’s a king, big whoop. Mine’s an anesthesiologist, and since we’re on the subject, my mom comes from old money to boot. You aren’t the only one in this room born with a silver spoon in your mouth, and in typical spoiled-rich-kid fashion, I can complain about how unfair my parents are just as much as you can.”
“You are aware,” Trystan said a moment later, “you don’t know where you’re taking us, correct?”
During her spiel, she’d led them out of the training room and down the hall, mostly to distract them both from the upcoming meeting with his dad. Despite what she’d just said, she was terrified of meeting the Rex. Her dad was judgmental, sure, but he was still her dad. The Rex was going to be intimidating as all hell, and she really wasn’t looking forward to that.
She didn’t even really know anything about him, other than he somehow magically made Trystan doubt himself—which had to be a superpower.
But did he use his powers for good or evil?
It’d been the Rex who’d put an end to the war by suggesting peace through marriage. She didn’t think he could be all that bad if saving lives was his main objective.
“Feel free to correct our course anytime.” She waved Trystan ahead of her.
Trystan took her up on her offer, leading them down another set of corridors narrower than the previous ones.
Unlike back at the Vakar palace, there was no mixture of uniforms here. Every Teller they passed wore traditional Kint blues and silvers.
How did he expect to convince the world she was there of her own volition if he didn’t even have a single one of her guards on the grounds?
“Delaney.” Trystan held out an arm, blocking her from a door just as the Teller standing there began opening it. His hesitation clued her in to just how uncomfortable he actually was with all this.
Somehow, knowing that she wasn’t the only one feeling anxious made it a little more manageable.
“Try not to speak if you don’t have to,” he said. Before she could get offended, he added, “I don’t mean that as an insult. My father is … difficult to navigate. It’s best for both of us if you hang back unless he calls on you.” He paused, rethought his words. “But don’t be too quiet, either. Silences bother him. He thinks it means the person he’s with is too dim-witted to come up with something to say.”
“You’re rambling.” It was impossible to miss the surprise in her tone. “We’ll be fine. I know the stakes.”
He breathed out a slow sigh of relief. “You always do. You’re clever. We’ll be fine.”
“Exactly.”
“Right.”
“As great as seeing you finally be normal is”—she motioned toward the opened door—“we probably shouldn’t keep him waiting much longer.”
“Right,” he repeated, then seemed to catch his mistake, and cleared his throat. He caught the Teller who was guarding the door looking at him, and straightened. “Have something to say, do you?”
“No, Zane. Apologies, Zane.” The Teller dropped his gaze to the ground and kept it there.
“Wise choice.” Trystan adjusted his shirt and then stepped into the room, leaving Delaney to follow.
Though she mouthed sorry to the Teller as she passed, she couldn’t help the slight upward curve to her lips. Bossy and rude was more Trystan’s sp
eed than insecure and at a loss for words.
Of course, her smile quickly vanished when she entered the conference room and was met with the massive face of someone who could only be the Rex.
Trystan was already positioned in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back in a similar stance to the one his subjects used with him. He didn’t so much as offer her a glance when she came over, keeping his eyes straight ahead and on his father, despite the fact that the Rex was paying him little mind.
All his attention was on Delaney.
It was easy enough to see the resemblance between the two of them, and not just because they both had blond hair. It wasn’t the similar set of their jaws, either, or the narrow bridge of their noses.
It was how he was looking at her, with a mixture of self-serving interest and calculation. In that look, Delaney could picture exactly what Trystan’s childhood might have been like. How he’d struggled to please his father, only to constantly fail. How he’d started imitating the man he saw, copying his mannerisms and his expressions. Honing them and imbedding them into his psyche until they became his own.
The Rex’s hair was a little longer than his son’s, and it curled at the ends. There was a single piercing at his right eyebrow, which somehow made him appear more dignified instead of less. A silver bar connected two navy blue gems, one at the top of his eyebrow, the other positioned directly beneath it. His eyes were brown with a ring of yellow.
“You were correct,” he spoke, and his voice was strong and deep. “She is quite lovely. I haven’t seen hair like yours, Lissa Delaney, since my last visit to Earth many years ago. I believe it was called the sixties then, by you Earthlings.”
“A lot has changed since,” she said, grateful that her voice hadn’t shaken.
“Oh,” he said, chuckling darkly, another similarity to his son, “I am very aware. I like to keep tabs on the goings-on of Earth, you see. Keeps me sharp.”
Just in case was what he didn’t add, but the implication was clear.
“What can we do for you today, Father?” Trystan drew the attention his way, and Delaney was grateful.
Between Frost and Fury Page 16