Chapter 23

Ihave never worn armor a day in my life, though I suppose the linen gambeson vest River brought me isn't exactly armor, but still a protective layer between myself and the weapons we will wield today. I turn in the mirror—to the left, then to the right—trying to find a stance I can rest in that doesn't make me feel completely ridiculous.

Convinced no such stance exists, I head to the dining room sporting the ridiculous navy linen covering and fix myself a plate from the breakfast options spread out on top of the long, elegant table. After gobbling down a generous portion of ham and porridge, I find Sin in the southern courtyard.

He's once again clad in nothing but a steel armor chest plate and leather swordsman's pants. I steal a glance at those pants, wondering what sort of hidden weapons he stashed in there this morning. The Black Art grabs an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back and nocks it against the bowstring with fluid grace. He takes a mere second to aim before releasing the tension on the string, sending the arrow hurtling to bury dead center into the cloth target.

"Knives, swords, arrows—do you actually enjoy being this vicious, or does it just come with the title?" I ask as I approach him.

Sin turns to me, an easy grin on his mouth, apparently finding comedy in the question I didn't fully ask half-heartedly. "Don't forget magic that can crush your insides." He winks and gives me a quick once over, assessing the fit of my vest.

I shuffle my arms uncomfortably. "Are you planning on cutting me in half if I make a mistake?" I ask, gesturing towards the protective covering I was told to put on this morning.

"One—I don't need a sword to split you in half. Two—it's not to protect you from me. It's to protect you from your own novice mistakes." He unslings his bow and quiver, dropping them to the grass, and picks up the broom laying at the target's base.

"I've used a sword before," I say.

It isn't a lie. We kept a few in the cabin to protect ourselves against outsiders. Any method of defense that didn't require my family members to shift skins to protect themselves was the better option. Should someone break in, a clean slice through the ribs would be the preferred method, although I know Eldridge would be itching to shift to use a more… predatory approach. Admittedly, the swords were too big for my stature and always felt cumbersome and unbalanced in my hand. I am significantly better with my bow or my knives, but nothing has ever compared to my magic.

"Wielding a sword and killing with one are not the same," he says, tossing me the broom.

I catch it and turn it over in my hand. It is a standard house broom with a long wooden shaft and a bundling of birch twigs at one end.

"Ah yes, the ol' sweep them to death maneuver. I can't wait to learn it."

Sin throws me a sideways glance and laughs—actually laughs—before shaking it off and drawing his sword. His very real sword. "I would be a fool to trust you not to kill yourself with one before I've taught you a thing or two."

Sin positions himself next to me, a mere few inches of space between our shoulders, and demonstrates how to grip the hilt—or in my case, the broom handle. He models how to adjust my grip depending on the direction I'm swinging and shows me the basics of a half, full, and horizontal cut, and a thrust lunge. He is surprisingly patient as I struggle to swing and step at the same time, offering corrections and repositioning me.

"Loosen your grip," he tells me for what must be the hundredth time.

I shoot him an exasperated look, convinced I am holding it looser than before, and he shakes his head. Sin steps up behind me, pressing his chest against my back, and loops his arms under mine to grab my hand with his on the hilt. His proximity pricks the hairs on the back of my neck and has my hand clenching the sword much tighter now as he forcibly pries my fingers from the handle and repositions them so the weapon balances more evenly in my grip. Satisfied with my new stance, he backs away, and I exhale sharply.

The light practice I had done at home was recess compared to training under the Black Art's watchful stare—eyes that didn't miss a single mistake—and I make a lot. At some point, I forget to feel silly waving my broom around, too focused on coordinating my steps with my lunges and my hand positioning.

When he's confident I have learned the bare basics, Sin invites me to spar with him. He slows his pace down as much as he can without tripping himself, allowing me to get the feel of striking with the broom, and what it feels like to have those strikes deflected. I practice adjusting my approach as he blocks my thrusts, and maintaining my balance as I shift my weight between my feet.

Relief washes through me when he says we can stop, the moon having relieved the sun an hour ago. The broom must only weigh a fraction of his weapon's weight, but my arms burn at keeping it held out in front of me for so long. Sin wipes the back of his hand across his forehead, and I wonder if his muscled arms feel even a twinge of soreness.

"You did well," he offers, collecting his belongings.

"Bet you didn't know how deadly I was with a broom," I respond coolly, pulling another chuckle from him.

"Your body will ache tomorrow. Take a bath now to soak the muscles, and they won't hurt as bad when you wake up."

I nod, not wanting to admit my arms started burning hours ago.

"Meet me here tomorrow. We'll break from this and focus on casting."

"Good, because this has done a number to my confidence," I mumble, handing him back the broom, then turning to head towards the bathhouse.

"Little witch."

I pause and look over my shoulder, just as he motions with his chin for me to follow him. "This way."

My feet fall in line beside his, my eyebrow spiking when I look at him with a silent question.

"There's a collection of oils and herbs in the private bath. It's only ever occupied when guests are visiting, but as we have no visitors today, it's yours to use."

"Oh," I say, surprised at the Black Art's display of… kindness? Not quite, but almost.

Sin escorts me to a small structure with vining green plants climbing up the sides and across the slanted roof. He pushes open the door and heads to a large cabinet along the wall, while I take in the small steaming pool in the center of the bathhouse. "Undress and get in. I need to read these labels…" he says, his hands fumbling over the small glass jars of assorted herbs, flowers, and oils, each with handwritten scrawl on the side detailing their medicinal properties.

With his attention on the collection of jars in front of him, I disrobe and step into the bathing chamber large enough to fit a few bodies. The warmth wrings some of the soreness from my arms instantly, and a deep sigh falls from my lips.

"Do I want to know what you're moaning about back there; in quarters that are not your own I might add?"

"I was not moaning!" I snap. "The water just feels nice, alright? Not all of us have honed our bodies into… well, that," I say, glancing at where he stands, his bare abdomen visible on either side of the armored plate. "Us normal people actually feel pain, Blackheart."

"I would think you've come to resent that nickname now that it's been so adoringly marked on you."

I flash a vulgar gesture to his back, and his shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly, as if he felt the expression aimed at him. My eyes dart to the small black heart permanently inked into the skin of my hip, and bile coats my mouth.

"I understand why you marked me, Your Grace. If I had someone as wonderfully talented and powerful as myself in my company, I would wish to claim them as my own too. Now only if I knew someone as powerful as myself… hmm… maybe in the next life."

"You spill a lot of shit from that pretty mouth for someone who wouldn't survive fifteen seconds in combat without your magic. You made that perfectly clear today."

"And you're awfully arrogant for someone who doesn't know basic herbal properties. Am I going to have to wait for you to finish reading every label in the cabinet, or can you just fetch the lavender and calendula on your left?"

His hands snatch the two jars from the cabinet, the one with the dried lavender for soothing muscles and the other with the rich orange tones of dried calendula petals, ideal for reducing swelling. Sin sprinkles a generous amount of the herbs into the water and finishes with a few drops of oil from a tiny, dark bottle.

"Thank you."

Keeping his eyes fixed on the water now clouded from the additions, he says, "Just wanted to make sure you didn't have any excuses when I knock you on your little round ass tomorrow."

I smack the water, assaulting him with a hundred tiny droplets that he sidesteps with a wave of his arm, the shadow of a smirk on his face.

"Sure, we'll see about that."

His eyes never wandering to where I sit naked in the steaming water, he heads for the door. "I don't make idle threats, love."

* * *

Alone in the private bath, my mind drifts to thoughts of tomorrow when we'll be dueling with magic in place of swords.

That will be interesting.

Enjoy your caster's high, Sin had said. He knew the effect expelling that amount of magic the night I confronted him would have on me—the purely physical reaction it would stir in me, and the heat it would send beelining straight to my thighs.

I dueled with Eldridge a lot. He practiced conjuring his shields around him, while I worked on my casting, never enough to shatter his shields completely, but enough to build up the muscle memory of grabbing my collective and willing it away from me, again and again. Naturally, the caster's high would follow, and if Eldridge hadn't seen me at my lowest point, maybe I would have acted on those instincts.

But he had seen me—when I was so weak, so feeble. And now I don't know if he could ever see me as something different, as someone different. Could he see me as the woman I wanted to be now?

A woman who was shatterproof.

My thoughts wander to the feelings I often felt when Eldridge and I would duel and the magic that would coerce my body into betraying me. I slip a hand under the water and find myself slick with the thought of him.

The anger that flashed in his eyes when someone dared to speak ill of me… the feel of his bulky arms wrapped around me on the coldest of nights. His possessiveness…

My mind drifts to the night of the Rut when Eldridge interfered after… after Sin decked a man for his crude suggestion. And then slung me over his shoulder as if I was nothing more than a belonging.

His belonging.

I slip a finger inside and this time, the sound that escapes my lips is a moan. And for the briefest of moments, before I come to my senses and vanish the thought completely, I wish the Black Art was around to hear it.