Page 92 of Cerulean Truth
“Yes, it would Emma, if you lose control, you might summon too much emotion, too much energy and kill yourself or others in the process! Remember the incident which started it all…”
My patience was already wearing thin, and now he had the audacity to bring up the bathroom incident? Again?
“Oh just shut up already!” I interrupted him. I picked up my belongings and left Oasis without another word.
“Fine!” I heard him saying, clearly losing his patience. “Figure it out yourself then.”
I hesitated, slightly hoping he didn’t mean he wouldn’t train me anymore, but I was too stubborn to turn around.
I stomped all the way back to the Universitas, to my dorm, like an elephant in need of an attitude adjustment.
Crashing on my bed, I wished for a million drinks so I nexed Enya and asked her out to The Cube. To my relief, my sole bitchy and sarcastic friend was able to muster enough enthusiasm to meet me there later on.
The Cube wasa bar with a magical twist. As magi translated their own drinks and food at will, the bar offered only a few complicated cocktails on the menu, focusing instead on renting out space in the form of cubicles.
Upon arrival, one would find themselves seated in a neutral cubicle equipped only with a table and a few chairs. The booth remained cloaked until one would personalize it to their liking. Once “decorated”, the entire cubicle would rotate, uncloak, and seamlessly integrate into a lively, cacophonous circle.
In the center of this arrangement stood a DJ, orchestrating a diverse range of music that varied depending on the night of the week. Mondays, for instance, ushered in a mellow strain of EDM.
Arriving at the Cube in the early evening, my lingering irritation with James led me to ask Enya—the only one I’d told in confidence about my "malpractice," (as James and I called my lack of translation, with a wink to my past as a lawyer)—to translate me a whisky. I simply wasn’t feeling one of their signature cocktails. Our cubicle, already transformed by her, now resembled a chic cocktail lounge, complete with a low table, purple lighting, and elongated loungers.
"To those who wish us well!" Enya toasted.
"The rest of them can go to hell!" I replied in our playful, idiotic rhyme. We exchanged smirks as I savored the warmth of the single malt coursing through me.
Casting a glance at the neighboring cubicles, I nearly spat out my Scotch. Even though I could only see the back of his head, there was no mistaking who it belonged to—James. Naturally. I really couldn’t catch a break from him, could I?
He remained oblivious to my presence, engrossed in conversation a few booths away with his friends. On the other hand, Jackson noticed me and beckoned with an enthusiastic wave and a broad smile. I sighed; it appeared that escaping James would be a futile endeavor. I signaled to Jackson that I would join them later.
Once again, I turned my gaze toward James. He hadn't acknowledged me, his back still turned, not bothering to offera greeting or even a glance. Yet, there I was, sort of captivated by the sight of him. His broad shoulders were outlined in the fabric of his shirt, the muscles beneath subtly shifting with each movement.
The memory of our physical training sessions flooded my mind, where his body, strong and sure, had pressed against mine, pinning me down with a heat that ignited my senses. As I watched him now, I couldn't help but recall the intensity of those moments. The warmth emanating from his presence seemed to suddenly envelop the entire bar, drawing me in and stirring a longing I hadn't realized was still there.
TWENTY-FOUR
JAMES
After Emma stormed out of our training session—again—without any apparent reason— again—I felt the urge to punch or kick something for the next few hours. Ever since the attempted bloodtheft, I had trouble regaining control over my darkness or whatever it was, as if that whole incident had opened up the inner gate to my rage.
Trainingherevery day tested the limits of my patience to their extremes. And fuck, if that didn't turn me on.
Every time I pushed her to the ground and my body completely covered hers, I heard her breathing become slightly erratic. Every time I held her down, I tried not to notice how warm and soft she felt under my touch, how her cheeks blossomed under my stare and how her lips parted every time mine came close.
Every fucking time my body enveloped hers, my blood streamed downward and I had to keep my manhood in check. Would’ve been pretty awkward if my Skindo wasn’t the only stick poking her.
Fuck, she made me feel like I was hitting puberty all over again.
So yeah, once I realized I’d have my hands on her body every time we trained, that I’d feel hers wriggling beneath mine, have her intoxicating smell up my nose every fucking day, I erected my walls so high, nothing else could get erected.
I had to keep my distance or it would’ve gotten very awkward very quickly. I did what I had to and turned into what I considered was the best version of myself: James, the First Offensive. Cold and seemingly indifferent but invested in her training.
I gave her hell but it was the only way to ensure she’d become the best.
What I hadn’t counted on was her stubbornness and constant desire to fight me on literally everything. That woman could not take an order if her life depended on it. Which frustrated me, which in turn frustrated her and before I knew it, every interaction between us had boiled down to inane bickering.
Which turned me on for some inexplicable reason. To be fair, there wasn’t much about Emma that didn’t turn me on.
The last six weeks, my days had been filled with all-things Emma, training her mostly physically and in translation, which hadn’t been going great. Or at all.
