Page 18 of Aryn

Aryn

The pillow pressed against my ears isn’t enough to block the muffled moans that drift through the walls. I groan as I pull it off my head, staring out the window as I try to tune out the noise. The moon is nearly full tonight, shining in a silvery slice of light that cuts across the room. I take a slow breath and watch the stars twinkling against the velvet black night. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the skies of my homeland that I can barely picture their warm hues anymore. A weak smile tugs at my lips at the thought of actually going back.

Excitement and fear tangle in my chest. All these years living among the humans have let me avoid the truth of what might wait for me there. They’ve let me pretend everything is fine, that my family still lives in peace and happiness. Crossing over—truly going home—will force me to face that illusion. I’m not sure how I’ll handle it if the reality is anything less than the peaceful life I’ve imagined for them all this time.

Another feminine moan echoes through the house, followed by Sprocket’s muffled voice offering low, encouraging praise. I heave a loud sigh and kick the covers off, pulling on a pair of shorts before heading outside. Sharing quarters is something I’m not used to, though I suppose hearing my friend have sex is better than the sounds that used to haunt the halls at Ljómur.

Night air blows over my skin as I step out the door. It’s not cool, not by a long shot, but the breeze is missing the heat it carries during the daytime. I sigh as I enjoy it. Elyra’s climate was milder than this, even before the changes began, and my body has never fully acclimated to the heat. I pad along the walkway with no set destination in mind, savoring the quiet while everyone else sleeps.

Or fucks, as is the case in our house.

Soft whooshes of air and footsteps on dirt catch my ears in the distance, and I follow the sound. Cato stands in the training circle, swinging a machete through a series of movements that are so fluid, the blade looks like an extension of his arm. He’s controlled in a way he never is during the day—breath steady despite the exertion, muscles poised and perfectly disciplined. His form is excellent, and his face is relaxed. The anger and tension he carries like armor are gone, and without them he looks… lost.

Moonlight catches the dust swirling around his feet as he spins, the weapon moving so fast it leaves faint half-circle arcs hanging in the air for a moment. He finishes the set and lets his shoulders drop, blade hanging loose at his side.

I shouldn’t invade his private moment, but before I can slip away, his gaze swings up and finds mine in the darkness. “Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer to lean against the fencing. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He eyes me warily. “Why are you out here in the middle of the night?”

“Same as you, I’d guess. Can’t sleep.” He grunts in agreement and idly twirls the blade in his hand. “Nervous?” I ask, nodding toward the weapon.

“No,” he stresses, his guard snapping back into place. “I don’t get nervous. I get ready.”

“You can do both,” I say, my gaze tracing the steady heave of his chest beneath his shirt.

He scoffs. “There’s not room for both.”

“So you push the fear out by training?”

“I’m not afraid,” he snaps, fingers tightening around the hilt.

“Then you’re a fool. We’re all afraid. That’s why you’re out here, isn’t it? You think if you’re prepared enough, everything will go smoothly?”

“That’s how it works. You train, you prepare, and you get the job done.”

“You can’t train for every possibility, Cato.”

“Sure I can,” he counters.

I walk around to the opening of the ring and run my fingertips along the row of practice swords, feeling the weight of his stare tracking me. I pick one up for myself and toss another to him. He catches it easily, lifting a brow before setting his machete aside, then meets me in the center.

We both drop into fighting stances, swords ready. “What if you’re charged head-on?” I ask, not giving him time to think as I sweep in with a hard swing.

Cato’s eyes flare, but he catches my blade with his and steps back on light feet, circling me. “I never give them my back,” he answers as he lunges and drives me back several steps. Our wooden blades clack together as we fight, neither of us gaining a clear advantage.

We meet each other’s eyes and lower our stances, but when he turns to grab a drink of water, I charge forward and press the point of my blade against his spine. “And if you’re ambushed?”

He freezes, muscles so motionless I could almost believe he belonged to my world instead of this one. The scent rolling off his skin is spicy, reminiscent of the dried herbs we rolled and smoked after dinner. My guard slips for a moment, and Cato doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. He spins, knocking my sword aside with a quick twist of his own and turning my torso with the motion. The flat of his blade catches the back of my knee and drops me to the ground. I roll before he can pin me, sword ready again.

“Don’t worry, Aryn,” he purrs, a cocky smile curving his lips. “I’ve watched you fight a lot recently. You do your best work on the ground, so I’m going to stay up here where I have the advantage.”

“Observant,” I say with a slow nod.

“Prepared,” he counters.

I shift my weight, watching for any tell of his next move. “What do you do if I’m hurt?”

His forehead furrows. “What?”