Page 106 of Hellbound

The dining hall echoed with the even clicks of his heels as he patiently circled the table to meet her on the other side.

His presence was warm at her shoulder.

Settling one arm like a snake over the back of her chair, he leaned in, dangerously close. She remembered the taste of his lips upon hers: blood-warm pomegranate.

“I held the security of this kingdom together single-handedly for the last few years without a Sevrant.”

His breath tickled her fresh scar in a painfully pleasurable way. That was a problem for a different night.

He brushed a loose strand back behind her ear. “And I was ready to continue with or without you.”

“And yet, you continued your search for one, year after year,” Ksenia quipped.

“What a comfort then that someone like you won,” he said, sticking the proverbial dagger in her side.

Her blood ran hot, mouth opening in retort.

“Oh, I’m not criticizing the effort—I’m just questioning the result.” He twisted the blade deeper.

A beat of silence.

Ksenia’s laughter was so light that it sounded unlike her. “You didn’t need someone obedient. You’ve already mastered that.” Her voice pitched low.

His head tilted.

“What you needed is a rule breaker to find your weaknesses.” She traced her wet finger over the rim of her glass.

His eyes snapped to hers. “You won’t find any.”

“Already have.” She pushed out of her seat, her front sliding up against him. She let him pin her hips against the table as she reached behind herself without looking.

Her slender fingers closed around his goblet instead of her own.

His half-lidded gaze darkened fractionally as she took an unhurried drink of his black currant wine.

“We start tonight in the sparring hall.” He turned and left.

“I’ve barely settled in—”

“Then fight tired.” His footfall receded. He was already done with her. “You have before.”

She stood, goblet halfway to her mouth.

A tremor in her hand.

The sparring hall was barren and cold. Ksenia rubbed her gloved hands together, willing her fingers to get ready for a difficult fight. She had changed into a sensible tunic tucked into leather breeches.

Iron braziers provided flickering light and some warmth between racks of weapons. The mosaic glass-vaulted ceilings depicted a glorious battle between warrior saints and demons emerging from a fissure in the earth. Raindrops puckered the windows, dappling the scant bit of moonlight that peeked between the storm clouds.

The hall smelled of iron, leather, oil, and the underlying tang of blood despite not a single trace being visible.

Heavy wooden posts, wrapped in rough rope and leather, were stationed at intervals throughout the long hall. Deep gouges and pieces of wood had been cleaved from them in countless training sessions.

Sandbags hung from wrought-iron chandeliers and anchored to beams, ideal for archery practice.

An expansive sparring circle on the ground was inlaid with bronze.

Bohdan adjusted his leather gloves, wrapping them tighter around his wrist. He didn’t spare her a glance as she approached.