Finally, my traitorous eyes slide towards a flash of silver hair. She’s beating on that padded tree, per usual. She always does this. Her movements are quick, controlled, channeling an emotion I can’t place. She spins suddenly, her arm raising before I see her wrist flick. I blink and a knife sinks deep into a tree ten yards away.
Practiced. Purposeful. Precise.
But I’m not the only one watching. Kitt’s gaze is locked on her, almost curiously. I clear my throat and pick up our pace. “So, how are you feeling?”
Kitt’s head whips towards me. “At the moment? Tired.”
I laugh at that, hitting him lightly in the stomach. “Yeah, you’re getting out of shape, Kitty.”
He shoves me at the mention of his childhood nickname. “Well, I don’t exactly have a reason I need to be in shape, do I?”
Though he says this jokingly, I don’t miss the bitter edge in his voice. I sigh, already knowing what this is about. “You know why you can’t.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Like hell you don’t,” I mutter. “Kitt, you’re the next king of Ilya. We need you alive. The Trials are no place for you.”
Shit.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they’d struck him like a physical blow.
“Is my own kingdom no place for me either?” His laugh holds no humor. “Hell, is anywhere outside of the castle not safe enough for the heir?”
“Kitt—”
“I know,” he cuts me off, taking a deep breath. “I know our duties are different. They always will be. I just wish mine weren’t so damn boring.” With that, he shoots me a weak smile in an effort to lighten the mood.
I watch him, waiting to see if he’ll say what we both know he wants to. Waiting to see if he’ll tell me that he feels trapped, that he feels like he’s constantly trying to prove himself, that he wishes he were in the Trials so he could do just that.
But he says nothing of the sort, his smile a silent plea to return to just being brothers and not the future king and his Enforcer.
So, for him, I force a grin onto my face. “Well, at least I can count on your vote in the Trials.”
The tension seems to melt from Kitt’s body, his smile displaying his emotions like it always has. He sighs in relief at the change in topic before saying, “Oh, I don’t know that you can count on my vote after you all but called me fat a few minutes ago, Kai Pie.”
I hate that nickname, and the asshole knows it. So, I stick out my foot, sending Ilya’s next king sprawling to the ground before he drags me with him.
We finish off our laps, dripping in sweat as the sun beats down on us. I stretch quickly before heading into the ring with Kitt. We dance around each other, using both our powers and bodies to fight. Falling into a familiar rhythm, I let myself mull over what Kitt had said, losing myself in my thoughts.
The world flips.
No. I flip.
And then I’m sprawled on my back, trying to suck air into my screaming lungs.
Dammit. Lost my focus.
“Got you on the ground, Kai.” Kitt smiles down at me. “Been a few years since that last happened, huh?” I can tell he’s about to continue gloating, so I don’t give him the chance.
My leg sweeps out, catching his ankles and sending him sprawling to the ground beside me.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, resting my head on the ground and smiling up at the sky.
Once he catches his breath, he’s barking out a laugh. “I should have seen that coming…” he trails off as I reluctantly stand to my feet and lazily brush the dirt from my clothes before offering a hand to him.
We go our separate ways, Kitt to spar with an insisting Blair, while I head to the targets. I grab the thin knives from the rack beside me and flip one in my hand before flipping it through the air.
Weapons. Fighting. Killing.
This was what I was raised to do. This is why I’ll be the Enforcer and the one fighting in the Trials, not Kitt.
I hear the pounding of fists and quiet panting a few yards to my left, where the padded trees border the training grounds.
She’s back at it.
Once again, she’s hammering blows into the tree. Or maybe she simply never stopped in the first place. She looks frustrated, angry—sloppy. Her punches are weaker, her form far less controlled. She’s tired and her stance is suffering because of it.
I mindlessly flip a knife in my hand, shaking my head at the sky for what I’m about to do. I send my blade cutting through the air towards the target before strolling over to her, coming from behind while she continues to strike the pads. I’m standing at her back now and—
She pivots in one swift move, sending an elbow flying towards my face. I barely have enough time to dodge before gripping her arm, halting it in the air. Her head whips around, strands of silver hair sticking to her face, now slick with sweat.
My lips twitch into a smile. “You should keep practicing before you try to hit me.”
She snorts. “In case you’ve forgotten how I saved you, I know how to fight. I don’t need to try to hit you, prince.” She tugs her arm out of my grip and turns back towards the tree, intently ignoring me.
Well that just won’t do.
“With that form, you will need to try, Gray.”
“Oh, really?” I can’t tell if she’s amused or contemplating trying to hit me at this very moment. Maybe both.
“Yes, really. You’re sloppy. It’s not like you,” I state, making her scoff. Once again, she turns back to the tree and begins throwing more punches, decidedly done with our conversation. Her knuckles are red, raw, and nearly bleeding.
Why does she do this to herself?
I shake my head, already knowing the answer. Because I’ve done it before. I’ve hit pads, walls, anything until blood dripped from my fists. All to find a release for the anger, the frustration, that was pent up inside of me.
And that is exactly what Paedyn is doing.
She’s still swinging too much with her arms, rather than using her whole body as momentum. She’s typically very technical when it comes to fighting, making this especially unlike her. But she’s tired and frustrated.
And despite me knowing all this, I can’t fight the urge to toy with her.
I step even closer to her back and place my hands on her hips, twisting her body as she throws another punch. She jumps and stumbles into me, her head tipping back against my bare chest. “Stop swinging with your arms and swing with your whole body,” I say, bending my head so I’m close to her ear. She sucks in a breath when my hand sweeps over her abdomen, the whisper of my fingers dancing along her thin tank. “Engage your core, Gray.”
Her chest heaves. Then she takes a step forward, the heat of her body leaving mine. My hands are still planted on her hips when she turns her head to shoot me an irritated look.
She knows I’m right. And she hates it.
She got lazy and didn’t realize until now, too focused and frustrated to notice. The thought has me smiling down at her as she huffs, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes before turning back towards the tree.
“Now, throw a punch,” I murmur, leaning in to add, “Correctly.”
Shockingly, she doesn’t argue, likely realizing it won’t do her any good. She squares her shoulders and bounces on the balls of her feet. Then she jabs, her fist flying towards the mat as I twist her hips in time with the punch. There’s far more momentum behind it, and I can see how much stronger she’s gotten in her short time here with consistent meals and training. When her knuckles sink into the pad, the lean muscles in her back and arms are evident.