She placed her hands on his chest and Shard darted out to catch one of them. He brought the back of her hand to his mouth and kissed it again.
The breath caught in her throat again and fire shot through him.
He wound a hand around the back of her neck and drew her down, his heart thudding sporadically. Shard searched her blue eyes and leaned up to press a kiss to her lips.
A moan left him immediately.
Her mouth spread the same buzzing heat through him as the oils had done, leaving him burning for more.
He’d lifted his head somewhere during the kiss and Shard lowered back down, breaking contact with her.
Her blue eyes were wide and fixed on his lips. She lifted her fingertips to touch her own mouth and Shard fixated on the subconscious movement, utterly entranced.
“Better than I dreamed,” he said honestly, closing his eyes again.
Chapter Twelve
Shard woke slowly, lifted up from supreme comfort. He shifted slightly and frowned at the leg pinning him down.
His eyes flew open and he stared down at a head of blonde hair.
Arla was nestled into the crook of his neck, her bare leg thrown over him and her hand splayed just above the top of her trousers.
Was she trying to kill him?
She made a small noise in the back of her throat that finished the job. He’d just die right here. Shard stroked her hair, breathing in her scent again. Did she smell like this all the time?
Arla stiffened in his arms.
“Morning,” he said.
Blonde hair covered his face as she surged upright, clipping him under the chin with the top of her head.
“Ouch,” he said, rubbing his chin and sitting up with her.
She was rubbing the top of her head. “What are you still doing here?”
“I fell asleep. Didn’t mean to.”
Her eyes were wide as she shuffled off the bed and retied her dressing gown. “You have to leave. Now.” She rounded the bed and threw his tunic at him.
Okay. . . . “You could have woken me,” he said, trying to make sense of her panic. “You must’ve fallen asleep last.”
“I did. But I thought I’d wake early.” She ran her hands through her hair. “You’re not putting your tunic on.”
He looked at the tunic she’d thrown at him. “I’m trying to figure out why you’re treating me like a dirty secret. Nothing happened between us.” Nothing but an oil massage, kiss, and more honest talking than they’d ever exchanged.
“Nothing?” she asked.
“Not sex,” he clarified, not willing to play that game with her so early.
Arla stood by the door as Shard pulled his tunic on.
She sighed. “Look, it’s not you. People might see. And talk.”
“And that could ruin your plan to provide your father with a reason to accept me somehow,” he said flatly. “I get it. I can only be seen once I’ve won.”
He stood and approached her.
“You knew what you were getting into,” she said, fists curling.
Shard smiled grimly. “You know that’s not true. Since we met, I saw you were uncomfortable letting people close to you. I let you set the rules and the pace of whatever might or could be between us. But last night finally seemed like you’d chosen me, even if you still have never said the words aloud, and that changes things for me. If that assumption is correct, then you need to know that you aren’t the only person worthy of consideration any longer. I’m here too. How would you like it if you spent a night in my bed and I threw your clothes at you and asked you to leave because I was worried you’d be seen?”
Pink flushed her cheeks.
“Exactly,” he said.
“My father—” she began.
Shard’s anger burst forth. “Your father has spent most of your life trying to sell you to the highest bidder.”
She tilted her chin. “For most of my life I was willing to be sold to the highest bidder.”
The admission was abhorrent to him, but he would never show that to her. “Then tell him you don’t want that anymore. If he’s a true father, he will want you to be happy.”
“I can’t do that to him, Shard.”
He stared at her, trying to rein in his temper. He hadn’t been this angry since . . . he couldn’t even recall. “You can’t do that to him? Or you’re afraid of doing it to yourself?”
Arla swallowed, not answering.
Shard stepped closer. “What if I don’t win, Arla? Do you think I want that resting on my head for the rest of my life? Watching you marry someone else? You’ve put me and your father in a situation where one of us loses, but you win either way.”
She whispered, “That’s not what I was doing. And I won’t win either way.”
“What are you doing, Arla?” he asked her.
Tears balanced on her eyelids. “I don’t know. It made sense. And then it began and nothing felt right but I couldn’t undo it. Father agreed to the ruse and now I can’t get out of it.”
“Tell your father it’s off and you choose me,” Shard said.
Arla stared at him, a tear trickling down her face. He held firm despite the noticeable trembling of her hands. This was the leap she had to take to save herself. Arla was afraid. Of her father on some level, yes. He’d known that for a long time. But her greater fear was of herself—of revealing the person she thought she might be, but she wasn’t quite ready to reveal that person yet.
“No,” she gasped, gripping the edges of her dressing gown and pulling them tight.
His heart sank. “I was the son of a whorehound,” he reminded her.
“I said no,” she snapped, eyes flashing.
“Arla—”
Her chest heaved as she whirled back. “Get out.”
They’d spent a night in each other’s arms. “I know you don’t mean that. Let’s talk about this.”
“No,” she said in a trembling voice. “I’m sick of talking. Get out, Shard. Don’t come back.”
Don’t come back. Shard studied her, his own breath coming fast. Cold dread had filled him, twinned with disbelief. How had they gone from last night to shouting at each other to don’t come back? She’d pushed him away in all manners of ways. And yet he’d only come back from Osolis because she’d never outright told him to leave.
“Do you mean that, Arla?” he said, teeth gritted. “Be sure you do because I’ll be doing as you ask. I’ve come back over and over because I love you, but if you tell me to go now, that’s it. You said sorry for scorning my tunic and offering of food. An apology means nothing if your actions don’t change. You can’t just say sorry time and again for the same thing. So I ask you again: Do you want me to leave and not come back?”
Arla held his gaze for the space of three painful heartbeats before the ice mask began to settle across her features. Shard watched it with a feeling akin to doom. She’d rejected him so many times.
He side-stepped her and pulled the door to her chamber inward. “Don’t bother. I’ll save you the trouble.”
Shard stood apart from the other fighters as Sin read out the order of the day’s proceedings with the usual dramatic flair.
Today, the sight made him angry. Today, everyone made him angry. His usual patient, understanding, objec-fucking-tivity was gone. Good riddance.
To think he was jumping through all these hoops. Had jumped through all of these hoops for her. And yet he’d started this fight, and like hell would he back out of the final contests because everything was over with Arla.
The ironic thing being that nothing had ever begun with her.
Shard was itching for a fight. He couldn’t recall a single time when he’d wanted to pummel someone to satisfy violent tendencies. To him, the calculation and skill drew him to engage in a contest against someone. Today, he was going to hurt people because he felt like it.
Mostly the same six fighters were here, overlapping in several categories. The Ire folk made up five of the six spots in
agility. A Solati the other contender. He, Jovan, Lina, Rhone, and Landon, and one of the Elite made up the six fighters for spear, accuracy, and sword. The same, with an Ire folk replacing the Elite, formed the dagger final. And Avalanche, Rhone, Jovan, and three other hulking giants were present for the strength category.
The crowd was on their third day and just as loud, but Shard ignored them; their joy infuriated him just as much as everything else.
Dagger was first. And Shard briefly forgot his anger when he saw that for the final, moving targets had been introduced. One, a strip of material waving in the slight breeze where it was tied to a post. Two, a small and twisted wooden hoop hanging like a chime from a rope extended between poles. Three, a circle target on a vertical axis that Shard suspected would spin.
The king was called first, and Shard assessed each of the tests. Jovan pinned the material without difficulty. And threw another dagger through the center of the wooden hoop, just clipping the side. He hit the edge of the bull’s-eye on the spinning target as well.
“Shard.”
He removed his favorite dagger from his hip holster. Weighing it carefully, he flipped it over a few times in his right hand as he approached the mat.
Shard stared at the free material and let loose, not smiling when the dagger pinned the material. He moved to the next and settled into waiting. The hoop twisting erratically in the breeze had to be hollow and made from reeds or light wood. The breeze down here was minimal, but every whisper caught at the target.
A clear shot would get him the most points, but he knew points would be docked if he stood here waiting too long.
The breeze died briefly, and Shard eyed the dropping of the small hoop, his hand whipping out. The dagger sailed clear through the middle. He breathed out.
The Ire judge approached the last target and gave it a hard push, setting the wooden circle spinning.
Shard didn’t wait. This was a rhythmic spin, not erratic. He swayed with the first two revolutions and then flicked out his final dagger.
Bull’s-eye.
Shard collected his weapons and stalked past the others, ignoring the look Lina sent Jovan. They could wonder and guess all they liked. He grabbed some water from Lorna without greeting her and gulped it back on his way to the cordoned off sword area.
The rest of the fighters joined him soon enough. Good. He was itching to swing a blade.
Sin approached and held out a small leather bag to Jovan. “Pull a name out, oh mighty and just king.”
The king fixed him with a look and reached into the bag. Drawing out a piece of paper, he read dully, “Queen Lina. I default.”
“Jovan,” Lina growled. “Don’t you dare.”
He shrugged. “You’re my wife and the mother of my child. No.”
Sin darted his eyes between them. “If neither of you fight, you will place in the bottom two. How about a show of skill for the people. Not a fight.”
One look at the queen’s face told Shard it wouldn’t be a show.
“Agreed,” Jovan said, glancing at her. “We’ll go last.”
Time wasn’t going to simmer her temper, just as it wouldn’t simmer Shard’s.
Sin held out the bag to him and he took hold of a piece of paper, reading aloud, “Landon.”
Perfect. A real fight. Someone he could completely unleash his fury upon.
“Which leaves Rhone and Orach,” Sin said, smiling at the female Elite. “Now—”
Shard stood. Picking up his sword, he entered the fighting ring.
“Uh, okay, so Shard and Tatum Landon are first,” Sin said, recovering fast.
Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Shard worked his body in familiar patterns, circling his sword wrist to feel the weight of the sleek weapon. In many ways the footwork of swordplay was as important as fighting. Forward, back, counter, turns. But the balance wasn’t.
Landon entered the ring and Shard let fury fill him, bristling for a fight.
A glint entered the Tatum’s eyes and he removed his outer robe, throwing it over Sin’s head before drawing his own sword.
The three judges lingered on the sidelines of the four-meter-in-diameter fighting space. Small, really, which forced a display of skill from both opponents. Evading someone was easy in a larger space.
The call went up to start and Shard didn’t waste any time covering the gap between them. Landon met him halfway, drawing his sword up to parry Shard’s overhead slash. His blade slid off and he turned with it, already prepared for the jab he knew was coming.
Shard held his blade vertical, allowing the Tatum’s blade to glide up and away. Landon’s weight surged forward, and Shard stuck out a foot, sending him stumbling.
He didn’t follow, knowing the Tatum wouldn’t be so easily defeated. Sure enough, the Solati recovered with blurring speed and attacked.
They met in the middle again, and this time the warning blows were over. Their blades clashed, their feet moved in a tandem that—once broken—would mean the end for one.
Sweat dripped over Shard’s brow and he blinked through it, reversing his step in response to Landon’s. Pure fury would get him through this fight and he summoned every dreg of it. The humiliation when she’d publicly scorned him. The hurt when Arla voiced her hateful comments. The frustration from knowing she didn’t mean any of it. The rage he’d held toward her father and the way he degraded Shard because of his past. The confusion and pain he’d always felt because his father had been a monster of the lowest variety.
He roared, pulling his blade free and releasing blow after blow upon the Tatum’s smooth defence. Shard advanced, forcing Landon back to the edge. This fight only ended when one of them was forced out or trapped with a deathblow.
The Tatum danced to the side, circling behind him.
Shard followed, watching carefully.
Not carefully enough. Landon lunged forward, hooking his leg. The air was forced from Shard’s chest as he landed flat on his back.
There wasn’t time to move before the Tatum’s blade rested against his throat.
Not today. Shard punched him under the ribs and then head-butted him twice. Using his legs to shove the Tatum off, he rolled with the taller man and dealt two more left blows to his face before positioning the tip of his sword underneath his ribs, directly underneath his heart.
“Yield,” he panted.
Blood streaked the Tatum’s face, but a wide smirk curled his lips. “I yield, Shard. Whoever she is, I hope she’s worth it.”
Shard grunted and stood back, holstering his sword before helping the ruler up. Then he left, just as he’d done with the dagger event.
He washed the cuts on his knuckles and then tore a strip from his tunic to bind them. He sat in the shade of one of the Dome walls, watching as the king and queen of Glacium had their ‘display’ fight, much to the roaring approval of the audience in the stands.
The strength and agility events were next and Shard hardly noticed him, entirely lost to his angry whirl of thoughts that didn’t have a beginning or end.
“Bad day?” Avalanche asked, sitting beside him.
He dragged himself into some semblance of normalcy and noticed the grimace on his friend’s face. “Who kicked your ass?”
“The king. Managed to beat Rhone for you, though.”
The comment punched Shard in the stomach. “Thanks,” he said shortly. “I appreciate it.” And he really did. “But that’s all over now.”
“It is? Finally gave up then?”
Shard stared around the Dome. “I guess so. I just don’t know why I’m doing all of this. Why I’ve acted like a fool for the last eighteen months for someone who can’t admit they have feelings for me.”
“She’s never said it?”
He shook his head. “No, and, well . . . I realized last night that I can’t change her. And that I need more than what she’s given me. Not much more. Just . . . companionship or trust. I don’t know. Anyway, she couldn’t give it to me, so that’s that.”
<
br /> Great, his anger was turning to sadness. Exactly what he’d hoped to avoid.
“You tried patience. And you tried this. Maybe it’s time to try something else,” Avalanche said after a while.
“And maybe that’s it,” Shard said, eyeing the area where the spear fighters were joining. “She’s only ever given me maybes. I suppose the maybes just wore me down in the end.”
Chapter Thirteen
Shard botched one of his spear throws in the next event. The targets were moving, like the dagger contest. But he’d fared better in the final accuracy test at least.
Honestly, he was just happy this façade was over.
Maybe he should leave Glacium for a while. The queen would understand. Maybe there was another tri-world party to escort somewhere or messages to carry. The respite from the castle had worked last time.
Except this time, Shard needed to give getting over Arla a real shot. He just had no idea if that was even possible.
While the fighters cooled down out of sight under the Dome, the games officials put together the final scores.
He could have left. The final score didn’t matter anymore.
And yet, like the same masochistic man he’d been since meeting her, he remained. When the other fighters trickled back out onto the Dome floor, Shard went with them, not expecting to win.
Dreading he’d win.
Because then what? To know that if he’d kept his mouth shut, things might be different at that moment? But how could he regret what he’d said? The rightness of his comments burned within him.
She’d had to hear those words from someone. Shard just hated that the person had to be him. Why not the father who’d made her that way? Why not the people in the assembly who’d been on the bad end of her temper?
Why him, when he needed her so badly?
His angst just led back to the same answer he’d given Avalanche. Too many maybes.
And even if he won, there would still be too many maybes.
Shard should have left. He could still leave.
He turned back for the door and a hand around the size of his head landed heavily on his shoulder, forcing him back the way he’d come.
Shard: A Tainted Accords Novella, 4.8 Page 9