Around and around the ring, fists flying, teeth bared in fierce grins, they lost themselves to sweat and sun and breathing. They’d been born for such things, endured centuries of training that had honed their bodies into instruments of violence. To allow their bodies to do just what they wished was its own sort of freedom.
Faster and faster they fought, and even Cassian’s breathing became labored. Though Cassian had more bulk, Azriel was quick as hell—they were evenly matched. They might be at this for hours, if they were truly facing each other as enemies. Might have been at it for days, if they’d been opponents in one of the old wars, where entire battles had come to a standstill to watch great heroes go head-to-head.
But time wasn’t unlimited, and he did have a lesson to get through with Nesta.
“Right,” Cassian panted through gritted teeth as he blocked Az’s kick and bounced a step back, circling again. “Whoever lands the next blow wins.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Az panted back. “We go until one of us eats dirt.”
Az had a vicious competitive streak. It wasn’t boastful and arrogant, the way Cassian knew he himself was prone to be, or possessive and terrifying like Amren’s. No, it was quiet and cruel and utterly lethal. Cassian had lost track of how many games they’d played over the centuries, with one of them certain of a win, only for Az to reveal some master strategy. Or how many games had been reduced to only Rhys and Az left standing, battling it out over cards or chess until the middle of the night, when Cassian and Mor had given up and started drinking.
They circled again, but Az snapped his head toward Nesta, eyes wide.
Cassian looked, heart leaping into his throat—
Azriel struck, a punch to the jaw hard enough that Cassian staggered.
Reeling, steadying himself, he cursed.
Az let out a soft laugh, eyes flickering. He’d wielded the same deception that Cassian had used at the start of this, played the one card that would get Cassian to remove his focus from an opponent.
It had happened before—against Hybern. Nesta had screamed his name, and even in the midst of the battlefield, he’d abandoned his soldiers and rushed for her, not caring about anything other than reaching her, saving her.
Only, Nesta had saved him. And she had screamed his name to get him out of the Cauldron’s range.
His soldiers had been blasted apart a moment later. And when he’d looked at her face, he’d understood something—something that the past year and a half had shredded apart and turned cold.
Cassian rolled his shoulder, hand at his jaw as he said to Az, “Bastard.”
Az laughed again, and they turned toward Nesta.
She remained a pillar of cool calm, but a line of color stained her cheeks.
There was no wind to blow her scent to him, but from the way her throat bobbed as she glanced between them …
Azriel let out a cough and walked toward the water station.
“You’re drooling,” Cassian said to her, and Nesta went rigid.
“If there was anything enticing,” she hissed, entering the ring, “it was seeing Azriel punch your face.”
Cassian motioned for her to get into her fighting stance. “Keep telling yourself that, Nes.”
“What do you know of the Dread Trove?”
“The what?” Gwyn turned from the desk where Nesta had found the priestess singing softly to herself, situated just outside Merrill’s shut office door.
“The Dread Trove,” Nesta said, wincing at her sore body’s protestations as she took a seat on the edge of Gwyn’s desk. “Three ancient artifacts …”
Gwyn shook her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
Nesta was still sweaty from the lesson with Cassian and Azriel. They’d walked her through the punches and kicks and steps they’d done with ease, though neither had laughed when she was clumsy or ungraceful.
Seeing them spar had been overwhelming. Their beautiful forms, tattooed and scarred and carved with muscle, gleaming with sweat as they fought with a viciousness and intelligence she’d never seen … She’d been sweating herself when they’d finished, wondering what it’d be like to be between those two male bodies, letting them turn all that lethal attention on worshipping her.
Elain would faint to hear such thoughts. And to hear that Nesta had already had two males in her bed not once but twice, and had enjoyed every second of it. But the males Nesta had shared herself with hadn’t looked like Cassian and Azriel. Hadn’t been Cassian and Azriel.