Page 83 of Veiled Flames
Our gazes meet, and once again I’m struck by the fires carried in his eyes. My belly stirs and the breath vacates my chest.
I went two and twenty years barely noticing men, but in less than a fortnight something has awoken inside me. Something that sparks to life any time I’m close to either Tynan or Saxon. Even though both are my enemies.
“Rosshall,” Treacher says.
I snap my attention back to the master. Looking at his scarred and fierce face, my cheeks heat, and I pray to Othrix that I wasn’t staring at Tynan for long.
“Candidate Rosshall,” Treacher says. “For this accomplishment, you have been awarded a bronze bar.” He turns behind him. “Master Saxon?”
Saxon steps forward to take Treacher’s place in front of me. My heart races, and I keep my gaze on his chest, not wanting to risk the sight of his face. Saxon will never,ever, touch me again, never mindenterme, but my body has yet to fully accept my mind’s resolve. Perhaps I need to find another lover, but that’s impossible at camp, if I’m to keep my secret.
Saxon’s hands rise, and I stare at them as he fastens a small pin to my jacket. His fingers are thick and strong, weapons all on their own, but all I can think of is how those fingers feel when they caress me, and especially when they move inside me.
Saxon’s earthy scent fills my mind and draws up my gaze.
My entire body stiffens at the impact of his handsome, rugged face, and his golden hair flowing around it. Desire and longing ripple through my body, like a fresh spark through kindling. Between my legs, my sex pulses, and I’m grateful it’s hidden under my breeches, so no one can detect what’s happening. How do men cope with their obvious displays of arousal?
Saxon bends toward my ear, and I stop breathing.
“Quit now,” he says quietly. “Your luck won’t last. Accept my offer while you still can.”
I step back from him, raising my chin and casting my eyes on his chest.
My own chest is heaving, but I’m rescued as a group of my fellow recruits grab me from the stage and carry me around the room to a chorus of cheers.
Thirty-Two
Tynan
My gauntlet record was broken. I shrug off the sting, as Rosshall is carried off the stage.
“He’s still a runt,” I say to Burchard beside me. “Even the smallest dragon will rip him in half—assuming he lasts long enough to try.”
Burchard and the others around me all chuckle, but I can sense their pity. Pity for me.
Failures are unacceptable. You must be punished to learn that lesson.
My chest tightens, and my mind fogs with red haze. My every instinct urges me to lash out, to hurt someone—anyone—so I can ignore my self-hatred.
I can’t let rage win. Pretending I’ve spotted someone on the other side of the room, I stride away from my compeers, and then tuck into a dark corner behind one of the large columns. Rage and panic have mingled into a poisonous mix inside me.
My failure must be punished, and I’m shaking with the urge to find someone to suffer in my stead.
Making it worse, it was the runt who showed me up. I must reassert my dominance amongst the candidates. I need to stay on top, until I successfully mount a dragon. When Treacher mentioned the three and ten candidates who died on the gauntlet today, he didn’t mention the four of my compeers who perished trying to mount a dragon. Soon it will be my turn again.
They were weak. They failed. They deserved to die. I will not fail.
The red haze expands, and my fists shake at my sides.
If Saxon were here, he’d tell me to take deep breaths. To recognize why my anger was sparked and move past it. But I’m not sure I have that kind of energy tonight.
Leaning back against the column, I bend forward squeezing my head between my fists. My breaths are coming too quickly as my rage builds alongside my shame.
I’m better than this. I’m not in Khotor. My father and grandfather are not here to punish me. Nor are my brothers here to ridicule me with their words, fists or boots. Here at camp, I face dangers, but I won’t be beaten or mocked for my failures. And I don’t need to be the best at all things. Even if I usually am.
I draw long breaths, practicing the skills I learned from Saxon, and repeating the words he’s oft shared with me. Saxon might hate me for things that I’ve done, he might resent my royal blood and noble station, but I can’t deny that he’s helped me.
Still bent over with my head in my hands, slowly, my muscles unclench, my mind clears, and my heart slows to a morereasonable clip. I’m feeling better, but still not under control. No one can see me like this.
