Page 1 of Mistake of Magic
1
Lera
Icircle, my hands raised, my breath coming hard. Rapid. Nothing like the calm male before me, whose every movement is water incarnate. Beads of sweat snake down my skin, stinging my eyes and salting my lips. A distant part of my mind remembers this mountain path being bitingly cold, but that was an eternity ago, when my lungs had all the air they wanted.
The soft crack of twigs beneath my leather boots mocks me gently. The male’s feet make no sound, as if the drying autumn leaves have no power to get in his way.
Bending my knees, I launch forward, bracing for the impact. I aim my shoulder for the male’s thigh, my hands ready to chop his knees just as soon as I lock against his body. No hesitation, that’s the key. Move through him. Penetrate. Now that I’m committed, one of us will be hitting the ground. Him or me.
It will hurt a lot less if it’s him.
My shoulder strikes a wall of deadly, immortal flesh.Penetrate. Penetrate. Penetrate.I keep moving, shoving, as if my true target isn’t the male himself but something beyond him. The male’s musky, metallic scent fills my nose. My legs strain with the burn of depleted muscle. The wall that is him holds. One heartbeat. Two. On the third, it finally wavers, then gives.
The male lands gracefully on his back, my body sprawled a great deal less gracefully atop him. My sweat-slicked cheek slides across the hard squares of his bare abdomen. And I realize I was very wrong: It hurts just as much to land on top of the male as on the ground, his coiled muscles offering all the cushioning of bloody rocks.
Before I can gather myself, I realize I’m still moving.Weare still moving.
The male’s muscled arms wrap around me, his hips continuing the motion that I kindled. I feel myself pressed against him as he rolls fluidly over his shoulder, reversing our positions. It’s my back on the ground now, the twigs digging into my flesh while the male straddles my body, his hands pinning my wrists to the dirt. His face floats above mine, piercing blue eyes lit with frustration. His sharply carved jaw is clenched even tighter than usual, and a wisp of blond hair that’s escaped his bun drops down to tickle my cheek.
“Mortal.” His voice is a low velvet that vibrates through my body.
“You are a bastard, Coal,” I say through clenched teeth.
Coal raises a brow. His hips shift, somehow making him feel three times heavier. He lowers his face to mine, the hair’s distance between us saturated with his body’s blazing heat.His eyes meet mine, the purple tinge around his irises hidden. “You stopped paying attention the instant your takedown succeeded.”
I wonder whether that purple is a trick of the light or a reflection of Coal’s thoughts. It would be very interesting if it were the latter, though I doubt it’s possible.
“Mortal.” Coal squeezes my wrists harder to get my attention, his voice dangerously quiet. “Next time your mind goes on holiday, I’ll crack a rib or two.”
“Empty... threat.” I fight to get the words past the pressure on my chest.
Coal’s sharp canines bare themselves. “Shall we wager on it? Shade can heal you afterward, but I promise it won’t feel good.”
Shit. My stomach clenches, a rush of unease pushing my heart into a gallop and my attention on Coal to razor-sharp focus. I trust the warrior with my life, not with my enjoyment of it. He just might crack ribs if that brutal mind of his thought it a good idea.
Coal slides off me, extending a hand to pull me to my feet.
I climb up slowly, stretching out the moment in hopes of finding my suddenly elusive balance, of convincing my heart to slow. Just when I think I’ve cracked through Coal’s facade, I discover a new level of steel underneath.
I straighten my shirt, brush dirt and leaves off the back of my head. I’m wearing what has become my customary training outfit: supple black leather pants, soft boots that lace up the back of my calves, and a fitted linen shirt. I learned my lesson about wearing loose clothes a week ago—when Coal proved he wasn’t above yanking me around with extra fabric.
Coal presses his hand between my shoulder blades, nudging a finger beneath my auburn braid. “You are all right. Feel the solid ground beneath your feet, and breathe.”
And here I thought myself better at hiding emotions.
“I can smell fear,” Coal says, as if having heard my thoughts. For a male who thinks a cracked rib to be an acceptable teaching aid, his awareness of my body is frighteningly perceptive. Switching his grip to my shoulders, Coal twists me about to face him. Sweat drips lazily down the deep groove between his pectorals, and I have to force myself not to track it with my eyes. Like all of my males, Coal is large for an immortal fae warrior, and I—being small even for a human—barely reach his corded shoulder. Coal’s face tips down, clear blue eyes studying mine. “I can smell the absence of it too, mortal. And when you stop being a little bit afraid of the consequences, you forget that you are training to defend yourself against the darkness of Mors.”
“I think you are confusing ‘a little bit afraid’ and ‘paralyzingly terrified.’” I step closer to him, reaching for his body with one hand.
Coal’s arms stiffen. “I don’t hug, mortal.”
“Says the male who was just sitting half-naked atop my chest.”
“I do as much to River, Shade, and Tye. If it makes you feel better, I do not hug any of them afterward either.” Coal releases my shoulders and steps back, reclaiming the all-too-familiar distance between us. The same distance he keeps between himself and everyone. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this male—the one who took half a dozen arrows in silence to protect my life—was afraid.
Perhaps I don’t know better. Slavery in the dark realm of Mors could have left scars beyond those on his wrists and flesh.
“Get some breakfast,” Coal calls, turning in the opposite direction of camp. “I’m going to wash up.”
