Page 25 of Black Wing and Shadows
I had goosebumps all over, and my hair stood up on my arms. Every part of me wanted to rip his clothes off, but I held onto the tiny bit of self-control I had right now. He reached down, grabbed my ass, and lifted me. I wrapped my legs around him. He spun us around, pressed me against the wall, and started kissing my neck slowly and so gently. He gently set me down and stared into my eyes.
“I… we… can’t.” He let out a low growl.
“I mean, I am not saying no…” I whimpered to him.
“I want to, trust me, I want to rip the clothes off your body, lick every part of you. I want to make you scream my name over and over again.”
“But?”
“You need to get back to class, and I really want our first time to be more than what I can offer out here. I want privacy.”
“Fair… maybe we should date first?”
He let out a chuckle. “Yeah, maybe.”
I gently pushed him away and headed back to class.
***
Week seven was about to begin, and we would be expected to spar with weapons. I was a little nervous, to be honest, since I was still healing. My right arm was still tender, but I was able to use it.
Our weekends involved less training and more freedom. I was sure that freedom did not include fraternization. Still, I was sure many cadets in our platoon hooked up—they did not hide it well. It was obvious when you entered the same bathroom minutes apart and emerged shortly after.
Growing up on different forts, reckless as a teenager, I picked up tricks fast—ways to get by, ways to get what I wanted. Maybe everyone knew back then, but I wore them like armor. My father couldn’t control me, no matter how hard he tried. I shut him out, stubborn and set on chasing my own wants. Every time my off again boyfriend was on, he was relieved, though his disapproval never softened.
Day two of sparring began, and I was not called to spar the previous day, but I knew I would participate today. Despite my restricted training, practicing with a weapon remained essential for passing basic training. Our squad gathered around a single mat. Jeremy was called to spar against Blaze from the fifth squad, who had also encircled the mat to watch. Jeremy removed his shirt, revealing his toned, attractive physique. He stood six feet tall, had light brown skin, and short black hair. A stunning wolf tattoo covered his left pectoral muscle, with tribal symbols extending from it onto his shoulder and upper arm, symbolizing his Shapeshifter heritage.
Blaze followed suit and removed his shirt, revealing all of his majestic wings. His physique was more defined than Jeremy's, which didn’t surprise me because Drusearons began training as soon as they learned to walk. Blaze stood about three inches taller than Jeremy. He had pale, luminous skin and long, sandy blonde hair that reached his shoulders. On his back, tribal tattoos wrapped around his wings.
They both stood on the mat facing each other, dancing around while holding a dagger in each hand. The daggers we used for sparring were dull but still sharp enough to cut. During our lessons last week, we learned how to inflict both lethal and nonlethal wounds. It was clearly emphasized that sparring should be nonlethal.
Jeremy extended his arm, and his dagger struck Blaze’s left wrist, causing bright red blood to start oozing immediately onto his hand and the mat. He still held his dagger, though not as tightly as before. He moved forward and aimed at Jeremy’s upper arm. Jeremy quickly dodged, spun around, and ended up behind Blaze, striking his calf. Fuck, that looked like it hurt. It definitely made my own calf ache in sympathy.
Blaze dropped to his knees. For a breath I thought he’d faltered, but Jeremy only stepped back, waiting for him to rise. Wrong move. Blaze sank lower, body spinning quick as a strike, and his dagger drove straight into Jeremy’s foot.
Jeremy roared, the sound raw and animalistic. My stomach clenched, eyes going wide as the blade punched deep. He crashed to the floor, clutching his foot, blood already pooling beneath his grip. Blaze didn’t give him time to breathe. He sprang up, slipped behind Jeremy, one bloody hand braced across his chest, the other pressing cold steel to his throat. Jeremy froze. Both daggers slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor. Surrender.
My heart pounded hard in my ears. It sucked watching a squadmate drop, but gods, the move had been brutal—clean, decisive, merciless. Impressive.
“Auriella Blackcreek & Arya Smithden.”
I was called to the mat for a fight against a female from the third squad. I had only seen her briefly and mainly in our barracks. Because my right side was weaker, I adopted a stance with my left side leading. Everyone in my platoon knew I had been out for several days due to injuries sustained during the pass, so they knew how to target me. What they didn't know was that I had undergone extensive training in weaponry. Both of us received two daggers, as in previous matches. Over the past week, I focused on improving my skills with my left arm. She was a few inches taller than I was, but I was used to my shorter height and made it work to my advantage.
She pranced around. I threw out a fake strike with my right hand. She jumped back and to her right, and I immediately threw my left out, contacting her right arm above the elbow. She winced but instantly threw her right arm out toward my left to counter the move. I swayed back to dodge the strike. She stepped closer to me. I threw another strike with my left, giving her a warning. She moved back, and I advanced with her, this time throwing my right arm out, striking her hip. Red blood oozed down her leg and onto the floor. She hissed, nose flaring at me. She countered with a strike using her left hand. I dodged it, but she threw her right hand and struck my right arm, just below my healing arrow wound.
FUCK.
Pain shot through my wrist and up my shoulder. Blood dripped down my arm, making my grip on the dagger slippery and sticky. Unlike Jeremy, who paused to give his opponent a moment, she was attacking me again. I took a quick breath and shifted to avoid her invading my space. Then I went back to the center. She approached as I had expected. She threw two more strikes, which I dodged, then I countered with a left punch that caught her off guard. I hit her forearm hard enough that she dropped her dagger.
Perfect, just what I wanted. Once you dropped it or the dagger slipped out of our hands, we were not permitted to retrieve it. The rules of defeat stated that the person either tapped or lost both daggers. Like all the other matches, there was blood everywhere, making the mats slippery. I stepped forward, squatted down with quickness, and struck at her thigh. She wasquick and moved back. As I stood up, my right foot slipped a little. She took advantage of that and moved forward to strike my left bicep. I let out a scream that even surprised me.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Both arms throbbed with every heartbeat, each pulse a hammer of pain. My daggers stayed clenched tight, steel biting into my palms. I lunged, snapping three quick maneuvers with my right. On the third I pulled back, then drove my left across her stomach. The blade tore flesh, and blood welled fast, dark and slick. Her eyes burned with fury, something feral breaking loose inside her.
She switched her dagger to her right and slashed in a frenzy, steel cutting the air with vicious speed. I couldn’t let her unravel. I had to end it. I circled, sprang onto her back, and locked my legs around her waist. I drove my dagger into her shoulder, the blade punching through muscle. Hot blood surged over my hand, spilling down her arm as she roared beneath me.
I swung my arm around, ready to press my second blade to her neck—when her dagger punched into my left calf. White heat exploded up my leg. Gods. Stars burst behind my eyes. Focus. I had to stay locked in. Pain could come later. I shifted hard, drove my blade into the back of her right arm to stop her from striking again, then dragged the steel up to her throat. She twitched, angling for my leg again, and I pressed the edge deeper against her skin.
