Page 17 of Touch

Hello, there.

Behind her, she listens to Andrew shuffle about, opening and closing a locker. She peeks over her shoulder and catches him bracing a longbow and pointing an arrow her way. It must be a spare that he stores here, since it doesn’t resemble the one he used against her in the woods.

He turns her way, a devilish grin stretching across his mouth. “Care to redeem your aim?”

Ah. The comment he’d made in the note about Love’s bow skills. Her conceit is not the least immune.

Love slides an arrow from her quiver and cartwheels the shaft across her fingers. “You will regret this.”

“I’ll see that bet,” he replies as she waltzes his way. “I might enjoy losing to you. It only means you get to take something from me as a winner’s prize.”

“My price is high.”

“My worth is higher.”

Cheeky man. He will pay dearly for that. When it comes to competition, she goes for blood.

Love sashays toward him while unhitching her bow. The bond between her and the weapon is intrinsic, so she dilutes her archery’s magic. It wouldn’t be a fair match otherwise, nor does she wish for him to see how the bow functions.

They don’t bother starting off easily. Aligning themselves side by side, positioned across from the farthest targets, she and Andrew loose their arrows. The projectiles spear across the distance and stab the targets’ hearts in unison, making it impossible to tell who has struck first.

This happens numerous times. They up the ante, veering in a full circle to compromise their focus and then releasing. Usually, her arrows evanesce on impact and manifest back into her quiver. But with a little willpower, Love adjusts this, forcing her to collect the weapons manually with Andrew.

In the end, heads, throats, eyes, and more hearts get pierced. The initial round finishes with a tie.

Love leans back, glaring at the severed targets. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Wounded pride.” Andrew surveys the damage. “And I’m not a beginner.”

“Then shoot me.”

He whirls on her, appalled. Before the mortal can protest, Love speeds away, halting at the opposite end of the range. She nocks her weapon, wheels, and points it at him. “Try it.”

“Like fuck am I going to try it,” he grits out. “I won’t hurt—”

“No. You won’t,” Love replies down the length of her arrow. “Because you’ll miss and prove me right. Now shoot or I shall.”

When Andrew refuses, she grins and releases the projectile. On instinct, he dodges, twisting out of the way. As the arrow impales a wall, another one cuts across the distance in his direction. This time, Andrew drops to one knee and ejects an arrow to block it, the weapons crashing together.

His splinters apart. Hers does not.

The mortal registers Love’s smirk. He slits his eyes, one edge of his lips sloping upward, and rolls his fabulous shoulders.

They charge into it. Arrows fly, cleaving through the air. Love flips and twirls at an inhuman pace, her maneuvers beyond mortal agility. Andrew manages to evade Love by leaping out of scope and blocking her weapons with his own, shattering several of his cache in the process. She nicks the mortal’s jacket and nearly glazes his angular jaw, but that is the extent.

This competition thrills Love. Though yes, she might be using it as an excuse to show off.

Disturbed by the notion, she pauses. “Impressive.”

Andrew stalls for breath. His chest rises and falls like a pump, and sweat laminates his throat. “I missed on purpose.”

“And I did not.”

“I know.”

Her mouth slants with mischief. Andrew mirrors her expression. Presumably, he’s the type of man who rises to a challenge. Sportive, playful.

Love isn’t lying about not missing on purpose. However, she has willed her arrows to imbue him with a minor and brief dose of infatuation, lest she should break skin. It’s the safest option. Considering how often his face distracts her aim, the probability is high.

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