Paedyn doesn’t say a word as she steps up and fires her next three arrows. And just as before, two hit the bullseye, one just shy of it. She’s mesmerizing to watch, to witness her work with this weapon.
I am going to lose. I don’t like losing.
And Paedyn knows it too. She walks past, smiling at me as if she’s already won. And she probably has. I take my time firing my next three shots, trying to concentrate and calm my breathing before letting them fly towards the target. Not helping. Two on the rings, one on the bullseye.
I glare at the target while Paedyn grins. She nocks an arrow as she says, “Now I see why you wanted to stick with hand-to-hand. You knew you had a better chance of winning that.”
She’s not wrong. Archery has never been my favorite or my forte. She’s still smiling as she focuses her attention on the target, calming her breathing before she even draws the bowstring back.
There is no way I’m winning this.
I fight a small smile at my sudden idea.
If I’m going to lose, I might as well have some fun.
I take a step towards her. Then I slowly step behind her—close behind her. My chest presses against her back at the same moment I let my hand lazily find her waist. She jumps at the sudden contact, and I laugh softly, close to her ear.
“What are you doing?” Her words are breathless, but she doesn’t move, frozen against me.
My lips are close to her ear as I murmur, “Distracting you.”
She lets out a forced laugh, feigning confidence. “I told—” Words fail her when my hand begins exploring farther along her waist, her abdomen, atop her thin tank. She swallows. “I told you I don’t get distracted.”
“Yes,” my fingers begin tracing lazy circles up and down her side, “and I could have sworn you tapped your left foot as you said it.” I lean in even closer, whispering against her ear, “And we both know that means you’re lying.”
The truth is, I’m the one lying. Her foot is the last thing I’m paying attention to. But I know she’s lying nonetheless, and I’m going to prove it.
“Well,” she clears her throat, trying to concentrate on forming words and not my fingers, “you’re wrong.” And with that unsure remark, she lifts her bow and draws the string.
I wrap an arm around her waist, slowly, and let my other hand brush from her knuckles curved around the bowstring all the way to her straining shoulder. With her body still pressed against mine, I feel a shiver snake up her spine as my fingers dance slowly up and down her arm. I smile against her ear, and I know she feels that too since she huffs in annoyance.
I feel her take a deep, shaky breath as she tries to calm down, tries to pull herself together. And then she fires. I chuckle against her ear when the arrow lands the farthest away from the bullseye yet. She whips her head around so our faces are mere inches apart and scowls at me. I’m amused, smiling as I let my eyes wander over her face, catching on every faint freckle and dark lash framing her blue eyes.
Then those ocean eyes tear from mine when she turns back to the target, grabbing another arrow. But she never tries to step out of my grasp. She’s too stubborn. If she moves now, she knows it will only prove just how much I truly distract her.
So, she nocks the next arrow and breathes as the breeze blows a strand of silver hair into her face. I reach around and gently, slowly, tuck it behind her ear as I whisper into it, “Why is it that you’re shooting with your left hand?” It’s a random question, used to distract as well as satisfy my curiosity.
She takes a deep breath before answering, “Would you believe me if I said it’s because I wanted to go easy on you?”
I laugh, shaking my head before resting my chin on her shoulder. “Liar. You would never go easy on me.”
“You’re right about that.” She exhales a shaky laugh. “My father taught me to shoot with both hands and after my injury in the Trial, I figured I should practice more with my left.”
And with that, she doesn’t hesitate before pulling back and firing the arrow, hitting far outside the bullseye with a soft thud. “Don’t. Say. A. Word,” she mutters through clenched teeth, not bothering to look at me as she grabs another arrow angrily.
“I wasn’t going to say a thing,” I say with mock innocence.
“Liar. I can practically feel you smirking.”
My lips are against the shell of her ear, and I am, in fact, smirking. “I can’t help it when I’m right.”
She’s still fiddling angrily with the arrow, her voice deceptively sweet as she says, “Well if you keep smirking like that, I’m going to turn around and point this arrow at your heart.”
I smile at her sentiment, my fingers continuing to draw circles across her stomach. She takes another shallow breath, about to pull back and fire when I mumble, “Yeah, well at least you might be able to hit my heart, unlike the bullseye—”
I’m not surprised when I feel the hard jab of an elbow sink into my stomach. The air whooshes out of me, but as soon as I catch my breath I’m laughing. Paedyn huffs and I tug her closer to me, using this game as an excuse to hold her, touch her.
Her head rests on my chest as she examines the target, breathing deeply. And I’m doing the same. My chest heaves, the feel of her against me almost too much to breathe properly. We fit together so perfectly, so right. I can hardly think, or breathe, or move when my fingers glide across her skin, her waist, her body.
Then, she lifts her head, lifts her bow, and lets the arrow fly. Bullseye. But barely. I lean down and rest my chin on her shoulder once again, admiring the arrow that finally made it to its mark. “It’s about time, Gray.”
“Let’s see you do any better,” she scoffs, pulling away as I reluctantly let her. I sigh and grab an arrow, settling it onto my bow. I fire quickly, hitting the ring closest to the bullseye, swearing under my breath. Then I grab another, determined to make the arrow land where I want it to.
Something brushes my arm, a whisper against my skin.
My head whips to the side, eyes crashing into blue ones below. She looks up at me through her lashes, eyes burning into mine, full of fire. Her hand hovers just above the exposed skin on my arm, teasing without touching.
“What are you doing, Gray?” I ask, turning my attention back towards the target.
“Distracting,” she says slowly, drawing out the syllables. Her hand brushes my arm again, lightly. So lightly.
I smile. “Darling, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
“No,” she says coolly, “I don’t think I do.”
The tips of her fingers meet my skin. She lets them trail down my arm, stopping at my wrist before making their way back up, painfully slow. Her fingers find their way under the sleeve of my cotton shirt, climbing up and up and—
Gone.
Her touch vanishes, leaving me aching for her to lay her hands on me—
That’s when it hits me.
She’s right. She doesn’t need to do anything more to distract me.
The mere thought of her being so close and barely touching me has my head spinning. I’m melted by the promise that her fingers gave me, promise of more, promise of something. Nothing. She won’t lay her hands on me. Instead, she’ll drive me mad by teasing me with her touch, only to pull it away, leaving me wanting more. Leaving me cold without the fire her fingers trail along my skin.