Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Evie

“Remember, you want to get the dagger from me.”

“I want you to get off me. So I can stab you with it.” Evie glared at Reid hovering above her, his boyish face grinning as he pinned her to the ground for the fourth time in the last half hour. Her training thus far had the success rate of a wet blanket.

The night had grown dark beyond the torches circling the sparring gardens. Stars twinkled above in greeting, as if waving down to the lush gardens below; the brightest star seemed to glint harder when she looked at it. The back garden was clearly designed for training and combat. Even the plants that sprouted up from the ground were as deadly as a Fortis warrior—and as pretty. Reid had explained that the pink flowers twisting up in the air caused instant death the moment they hit a person’s tongue…or instant healing. It depended on which one you picked.

Becky had wandered out shortly after Evie to watch her flounder. She’d nearly had a heart attack when Becky plopped one of the pink flowers right in her mouth. I’ve yet to choose wrong, she’d said.

The HR manager stood off to the side, rolling one of the weapons from the small armory cart in her hands. “Reid, your knee is about to go into her kidney.”

“Reid, your knee is already in my kidney,” Evie gritted out as she shoved at him. The scene was almost uncomfortably reminiscent of when Otto Warsen had her pinned to the ground, hands wrapped around her throat. The memory brought back the panic, the fear…the rage.

She brought her knee up to his groin—hard. Every man within a twenty-foot radius winced as Reid toppled over and Evie climbed to her feet. Reid wheezed, “That was a cheap shot.”

Evie pouted. “I’m afraid there are no cheap shots when one is defending themselves.” She leaned down, and Reid gulped. “The last man who pinned me down like that has his head adorning our rafters. I think I was gentle just then…all things considered.”

Reid crawled away, nodding gratefully.

One of the torches encircling the sparring grounds flickered, drawing her attention to a tree that was dotted with glowing fruit. One she recognized.

“The sleeping-death fruit you got me came from here?” Evie asked Becky, wandering over and plucking the peach-like fruit from the lowest branch. The soft fuzz tickled her palm. She smiled wistfully, shaking her head. A poisoned peach.

Raphael ripped the fruit from her hand and squashed it under his boot, waving a finger at Becky. “I told Reid not to honor that request, Rebecka. What in the deadlands would ever goad you into eating one of the world’s most deadly magical fruits?”

Evie stared at him, deadpanning: “I thought it would taste better than regular poison.”

Raphael clutched his head with both hands. “You keep odd company, Rebecka. What manner of beast is she?” The man was incredulous, clearly not used to being challenged—on anything.

Becky picked at her nails. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure it out for months.”

A cry sounded from behind her as Reid slammed into her back, and Evie panicked. She hadn’t realized they were still sparring! Her arms flew everywhere until her elbow connected hard against— Oh gods. Reid’s nose. He released her instantly, blood dribbling down his face.

“You’re bleeding!” Evie sounded a little too delighted. She hoped no one noticed.

“Amazing,” Reid said, bringing a handkerchief up to dab at his nose. “What would you call that move?”

“Flail until you hit something.”

Reid playfully slung an arm about her shoulders. “If it works, it works! Right, Raphael?”

Raphael grunted, moving to pick one of the pink flowers. The color made her realize something odd.

“I haven’t seen Tatianna—or Clare, for that matter—since the Trench. Were they at dinner?”

Reid and Roland shook their heads.

Evie found she was enjoying all the members of the Fortis family. She’d watched their affection, their candor, even their humility, and wanted to cram herself right in the middle. Still, there was something in Raphael…something secret…something rather formidable in how he carried himself. “I believe I saw both of them retire to their rooms for the evening.”

When he would have seen that, Evie had no clue, since the others had just admitted neither woman had gone down to dinner.

“I think I’ll go check on Tati, and I’m sure Clare wants an update on Trystan. If you would return my dagger, please?”

Her path was blocked by Raphael, who glowered at her before saying, “We are not done. You’ve yet to spar with me.”

Because I don’t want to die.

But it felt like a challenge, and she wasn’t one for backing down. “Fine, but I’d like to use the thinner swords over there,” she said, knowing she had zero chance of winning any sort of sparring match with the oldest of the Fortis siblings, but holding something sharp would certainly help her chances. The tips were capped, of course, for safety purposes, but she was sure they wouldn’t be difficult to remove…

Raphael’s jaw tightened, but he nodded to an incredibly large footman with hair so yellow it rivaled the sun. She moved to grab one of the swords, but she didn’t account for the constant movement of the vines that curled across the sparring grounds. Her foot caught on one, and it took the opportunity to tug her down the rest of the way.

Her back slapped into the dirt, her arms thrown wide in a disturbed T. The stoic footman above her was holding the sword almost over his shoulder, the hilt resting there.

The footman blinked at her. “Miss?”

“Would you believe me if I told you this happens a lot?”

The footman replied too quickly: “Yes.”

Reid went to stand next to the footman, bumping the large man with his hip as he asked Evie, “Shall I join you down there? Or will you come back up here for a little sword play?”

Evie narrowed her eyes. “Is that a euphemism?”

Reid waggled his brows. “Do you want it to be?” He kneeled and gripped her hips, preparing to haul her up, but he froze, peering at something past her.

Her breath caught when she tilted her head back against the ground and saw heaving shoulders and black diamond-chipped eyes.

Trystan.

He was watching the scene unfold, sweaty, raw, and perfect. His molten gaze locked on to where Reid’s hands were still molded against her hips, then to the large footman standing over her with a sword raised above his head. It didn’t look…good, per se.

But she was far too relieved to care that the men standing over her were likely in imminent danger. Trystan was alive—the man she’d sacrifice anything for was okay.

The same man with the vein throbbing in the side of his sweaty hair–slicked forehead. “What the fuck are you doing?” He was glaring at the footman and Reid.

The footman—the quiet, unassuming one—chose that moment to say, “We were discussing euphemisms. For swords.”

Evie’s lips pulled back in a wince.

But she should give Trystan more credit. The boss was a master in subtle displeasure. His largest bouts of anger were quiet and subdued, allowing the fear to build and flow in startling, frightening waves.

His brow twitched, his jaw flexed; his eyes flared, and the fists at his sides tightened. As he took a slow step toward them, she was sure he’d take the time to think and not do anything rash.

“I’m going to kill all of you.”

Never mind.