Page 28 of A Song of Air
That brought her comfort.
Weylyn stopped in the middle of the clearing, dropping her hand. He went to grab a weapon. She thought he’d reach for one of the swords lined up near the cart. Instead, he reached for something smaller. When he approached her again, it was to press the hilt of a knife into her palm.
She stared at it then back up at him.
“Everyone else is training with swords,” she whispered, feeling heat climb to her cheeks. A second of humiliation tried to overtake her. Curse her gnarled fingers. She couldn’t even train like the others. It made her feel like a hindrance rather than a help.
Weylyn nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Her brows pulled together. “Why a knife?”
“You know why.”
Because she couldn’t carry a sword.
She wanted to look away. The burning behind her eyelids was almost too much.
“A weapon is a weapon,” Weylyn said simply. “It doesn’t matter how big it is.” He said the words like he believed them with his whole heart. “You could easily best me with a knife or a sword. This is for your own comfort and advantage.”
When he put it like that, she wanted to believe him. So she nodded.
“A small weapon can be easily hidden,” he said. “Sheathed beneath your skirts.”
Her face flushed.
“An opponent will take one look and underestimate you,” he continued. His voice was low, and she found herself straining to hear him. The others did as well, she noticed from her peripheral. “Surprise them in hand-to-hand combat, my lady. Now, attack me.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Attack me.”
She didn’t know how she was supposed to do that. Taking a breath, she swung her arm in his direction. With a sigh, he lifted his forearm, effectively blocking her pathetic blow.
“Hit me with feeling, my lady.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
His eyes sparked. “Pretend I’m him,” he ordered, his voice lowering. It sent shivers along her arms. “Pretend I’m your bastard of a husband, come back from the dead. Pretend I’m him and you want to return every blow he ever gave you—”
Corvina swung with a cry. Her fear overpowered her for a second. She imagined Tobias really was alive and he was in front of her. For a second, she no longer saw Weylyn, but the man who had tortured and kept her captive for years.
All the rage she ever felt, the rage she thought she’d buried the past few days, came surging back up in a rush, like a tsunami crashing against a shore.
She attacked, a growl ripping from her throat that she barely recognized. She swung blindly and Weylyn dodged, all the while giving instructions. And somehow, through her haze of anger, she followed every single one.
She moved like she never thought she could move before. It was painful. It had her joints screaming, her scars throbbing, and her fingers crying. And yet she gave it her all. Weylyn parried back. He didn’t hit hard enough to hurt. She thought he was being cautious on purpose. Then he tackled her, and she went crashing to the ground. Her head bounded on the grass and the wind was knocked out of her.
From above, Weylyn was barely breathing heavily, as though this hadn’t been a workout at all.
“Now,” he said. “When you find yourself in this position, you take the knife from beneath your skirts, and you stab the bastard in the gut.”
The blade in her fingers repositioned, touching him on the side. “Like that?” she asked with wide eyes.
He smiled. “Exactly like that, my lady.”
Clay watched the scene unfold with narrowed eyes. Never before had he seen Weylyn train. He didn’t seem to be putting much effort into it with his movements and yet he looked completely fierce. His golden eyes flashed a violent color, and when he tackled Corvina, Clay’s hands tightened into fists. He flinched, barely resisting the urge to rush for his mate, to gnash his canines, to pummel all his violent instincts into the Fae’s face.
This was a strange moment and he wanted to watch it unfold.
