Page 42 of On Broken Bonds

I become painfully aware of every point of contact between us. Of how small she is. Of how good she smells. Of the fact that I should absolutely be stepping backward.

Instead, I find myself looking at her mouth.

Which is a mistake.

A very serious mistake.

Her gaze flickers downward between us for the briefest second before jumping back to my face. Color rises in her cheeks. Interesting. The realization sends a dangerous sort of satisfaction through me. Not because she's embarrassed but because she felt it too.

Neither of us seems entirely certain what to do with that knowledge.

Eventually, she takes a hurried step backward, putting space between us. It’s an excellent idea. One I probably should've had first.

With the immediate danger having passed, I'm suddenly aware of a new sensation.

A deep, heady scent drifts through the garden, threading itself between crushed leaves, damp earth, and moonlit flowers. At first, I can't place it. Then I breathe in again.

My entire body goes still. Interesting. The smell is subtle, but once I catch it, I can't seem to focus on anything else. Unfortunately, the source is standing directly in front of me.

“You know,” Nyx muses, “I'm beginning to suspect your green thumb needs a little work.”

I bark out a laugh.

“You wound me.” I shake my head. “I thought my technique was rather innovative.”

She laughs, and the sound is musical and light.

I lean in a little closer, breathing her scent in. “But you should know, flirting and fighting at the same time is a particularly valuable kind of skill.”

The words earn me an eye roll.

A very good eye roll.

“Do you flirt with every woman as you rescue them from murderous shrubbery?”

“Only the attractive ones.”

She folds her arms. “Uh, okay. Thanks?”

I try not to pout. “I was hoping you'd be more impressed.”

“By your swordsmanship?”

“By my charm.”

That finally pulls a reluctant smile from her and the wind shifts.

There it is again. That scent. I catch another breath before I can stop myself.

My gaze lingers on her longer than it should. I’m transfixed by the loose strands of dark hair escaping her braid, the color high in her cheeks, the way her hazel eyes catch the moonlight.

There's an undeniable pull toward her.

“Why did you help me?” she asks.

The question drags me back to the conversation. “Didn’t you need help?”

“Yeah, but why you? My competition?”