Nesta’s heart pounded with every word. Quieting her mind … “Can you get a scribe to make copies of the chapter?”
Gwyn grinned. “I already did.”
Cassian barked, “Do you three want to gossip or train?”
Nesta threw him a scathing look. “Don’t tell him of this,” she warned them. “It’s our secret.” And wouldn’t Cassian be surprised when she became the unflappable one?
Emerie and Gwyn nodded their agreement as Cassian sauntered over. Every muscle, every bit of blood and bone in Nesta’s body went on alert. She’d returned to the House this morning, winnowed in by a too-neutral Rhys. Cassian had been nowhere in sight.
She’d had all of thirty minutes to eat breakfast and change into her spare leathers, since the ones she’d worn in the bog were still soaked. The pair she’d donned were bigger—not baggy, but just slightly larger. She hadn’t noticed how tight her usual set was until she slid into the far more comfortable ones. Hadn’t noticed how much muscle she’d packed onto her thighs and arms this month until she realized her movements had been restricted by the old pair.
Cassian paused before them, hands on his hips. “Is there something more interesting today than your training?”
He knew. The bastard knew they’d been discussing him. The spark in his eye, the half grin, told her.
Emerie’s lips quivered with the effort to keep from smiling. “Not at all.”
Gwyn’s attention bounced between Nesta and Cassian.
Cassian said to the priestess, “Yes?”
Gwyn shook her head too quickly to be innocent and began her abdominal curls again, sweat gleaming on her freckled face. Emerie joined her, the two of them working so diligently that it was laughable. Nesta peered up at Cassian. “What?”
His eyes danced with wicked amusement. “Did you finish your set?”
“Yes.”
“And the push-ups?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, and she couldn’t help but think of how he’d approached last night, the way those hands had grasped her hips as he’d pounded into her from behind. Something must have shown on her face, because he said in a low voice, “You’ve certainly been productive, Nes.”
She swallowed, and knew the two females beside her were eating up every word. But she lifted her chin. “When do we get to do something of use? When do we start on archery or swords?”
“You think you’re ready to handle a sword?”
Emerie let out a fizzing noise, but kept working.
Nesta refused to smile, to blush, and said without breaking Cassian’s stare, “Only you can tell me that.”
His nostrils flared. “Get up.”
Cassian had told himself two dozen times since walking out of that bedroom that the sex had been a mistake. But watching Nesta challenge him, the innuendo like a sizzling flame, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.
Something to do with her only wanting sex, something to do with the sex being the best damn sex he’d ever had, and how it had left him in veritable pieces.
Nesta blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward the center of the pit. “You heard me. You think you’re ready to handle a sword, then prove it.”
Her friends were clearly aware of what they’d done last night. Emerie couldn’t even hide her laughing, and Gwyn kept sneaking looks at them.
He barked at the two females, “Finish your exercises now or do double.”
They stopped their gawking.
Nesta was still staring up at him, sweat and exertion filling that beautiful face of hers with color. A bead of perspiration slid down her temple, and he had to clench his fists to keep from leaning in to lick it away. She asked, “We’re going to learn swords?”
He aimed for the rack across the ring and she followed. “We’re going to start with wooden practice swords. Over my rotting corpse am I putting actual steel into the hands of novices.”
She snickered, and he stiffened. He tossed over a shoulder, “If you’re too childish to talk of blades without giggling, then you’re not ready for swordplay.”
She scowled. But Cassian said, “These are weapons of death.” He let his voice lift so all the females could hear him, though he spoke only to her. “They need to be treated with a healthy dose of respect. I didn’t even touch a real sword for the first seven years.”
“Seven years?” Gwyn demanded behind them.
He reached the rack and drew out a long blade, a near-replica of the Illyrian one down his back. “You think children should be swinging around a real sword?”