Page 57 of A Court of Masks and Roses
He rolls through the fall, coming up in a crouch. His leg sweeps my ankles and it’s my turn to tumble into the dirt. He follows, landing atop me, his thighs straddling my chest.
I bump him forward, forcing his arms to brace the ground for balance. The moment they do, I trap his left hand and leg, and bridge to that side. The shift of balance and momentum rolls us sideways until it’s me straddling his chest. Cocking my fist, I swing it at his jaw.
He bucks against me, as I did, and my blow only grazes his mandible. The storm in his eyes explodes, and in the next moment, I’m flying off him.
I land hard on my back.
Burying his fists in my tunic, the man hauls me to my feet and slams my back into a tree. The force rattles my ribs, the rough bark taking skin.
“Is this what you want? A fight?” he demands, his face close to mine. “Because I’m going to win. Every time.”
I laugh without humor and drive my knee into the meat of his thigh.
He grunts but holds his place. Pulling me back from the tree trunk, he goes for another solid slam.
My body hits the wood so hard that my head bounces, my scalp catching on a jagged edge of bark. The world blinks. I touch the back of my head.
The man flinches, blood draining from his face as he marks the slash of red on my hand.
I slam my knee into him. Again.Again.He shudders but takes the blows.
I growl. “You won’t win every time,” I yell into his face. I’m right. I have to be right, because the alternative is a nightmare of snaps and slices and binds. “Not every time.” Tears pour down my cheeks in warm, wet rows.
“No, not every time,” he whispers in agreement. His arms reach for me through the storm of my assault and gather me against his chest.
I strike him again and again and again until I can’t hit anymore because his mouth is on mine and an explosion of fire and need singes my every nerve.
31
KALI
My eyes sink closed. The pressure of Trace’s mouth engulfs my world. His lips are smooth and warm. Hot. Trace’s damp hair, smelling of the creek’s freshness, falls across the groove of my exposed neck. I grip his arms, clawing my fingers into his flesh, dragging him closer.
Trace growls against me, his hand cupping the back of my head. His tongue claims my mouth and my core vibrates in answer. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. I want.
Trace jerks back. His eyes are wide, his fingers pressing against his mouth. “I... I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.
I groan in frustration and pull him back down, feeling the noise he makes in the back of his throat all the way down to my ankles. He presses me into the tree with his whole body, running a hand up my side under my damp shirt, leaving a trail of heat from my waist to my ribcage.
This time, we both push away. He takes two steps back, just out of my reach. I swallow hard, the air suddenly cold andempty. We both breathe heavily, watching each other. Trace breaks the silence. “Stars. I didn’t mean to do that.”
My mouth opens. I shut it. The world spins and it’s an effort of will to keep my hands from grabbing on to his arms once more. “No. Of course not. We... I didn’t mean it either. Attacking you.” My voice sounds wrong. Everything I’m saying sounds wrong. I am a better liar than this. I grab my walking stick. Feel its rough bark. “Let’s just return to the palace, all right? I... I won’t press you for secrets. Or reveal them. Your decisions are your own. As are mine.”
Trace nods but avoids my gaze, staying several paces away from me as we reclaim our way back in uncomfortable silence.
We saylittle to each other for the rest of the afternoon. Too much has been said already. In the evening, we trap a rabbit for dinner and kindle a small fire to cook it over. There is curiously little that two people experienced in setting up camp must say to work in harmony. Eventually, however, we run out of chores, and the quiet stretches from practical to pregnant.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” Trace says finally. He rubs his palm over the side of his face, where a bruise is blossoming in earnest, and adjusts the log he sits on for a more comfortable fit. I have my own sitting log. And my own bed of gathered pine brush to sleep on. Trace clears his throat. “About being owed anything. I was frustrated. The words slipped past better reason.”
I add a slab of firewood to the flames and watch them lap it up hungrily, changing colors in their bliss. I don’t disbelieve Trace exactly. I just know it’s not really Kali he sees sitting beside him, but the woman he thinks Ishouldbe. I choose my words carefully, as if handling eggs. “I’m sorry about yourface.” Truth. I regret his bruises. I don’t regret taking the swing.
Trace braces his forearms against his knees. “You didn’t know who you were fighting.”
I tense. “Someone who was trying to take my life. The specifics seemed of little importance.” Truth. Rising, I stack our remaining firewood into a neat pile. It keeps my hands busy.
“And now?”
“The specifics still seem of little importance.”
