Two years ago...

I groaned. The text I needed was high up on the top shelf. The Codex of Air. It's spine was a deep green and it was several inches thick. The Citadel's library had ladders, but I was too lazy to get one. And of course, I'd spent all my magic in lessons earlier; I could barely keep my eyes open as it was. So I reached, stretching up to my tiptoes. I'd always been tall for a female at five feet ten inches. Still, it was a struggle. There! My fingers caught the edge and inched it out. It rocked back and I made to catch it. As my hand closed around it, the other books in my arms tumbled out, scattering on the floor.

Cursing under my breath, I glanced around, hoping no one had noticed, especially none of the librarian witches. But someone had noticed. My eyes landed on the alcove in the middle of the row. The plush armchair wasn't empty and the lamp on the table emitted a soft glow, casting a pool of light I hadn't seen when I was fishing for my book.

My breath hitched. I recognized my observer. Our eyes locked. A flush spread over my skin. Thank the gods it was dimly lit.

Time seemed to slow, to stop. I could hear my breathing. Gods. He probably could too. Scrambling, I ripped my gaze away and began gathering up my books. My movements were far from graceful. Once settled in the crook of my arm, I hesitated. Squaring my shoulders, I walked over to him.

He had an ankle propped on one knee, a book open on his muscled thigh. One arm was lazily draped on the arm rest. The other, resting on the open pages of his book. He tracked my approach, never taking his eyes from me. That sort of scrutiny was enough to strip any female bare. The intensity was ...unsettling.

What the hell was I doing?

I'd seen him earlier that day in the training hall, but only from a distance. Seen as he wiped the floor clean of every wielder in my cohort. The entire Citadel was awash with whispered rumors about him, about his return. Rixon. He definitely looked older up close, just as I'd heard. But it was his scar that I couldn't stop staring at. I traced it with my gaze.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, hi," I said. Then I cursed my stupid self. "You're new here, right?" Of course he was...and wasn't. A beat of awkward silence had me holding out my hand. "I...I'm Aramina. One of the witches. In training, that is. I haven't completed trials yet, I mean. I plan to this next time around."

Holy hell, I couldn't form a proper sentence.

He stared at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. A second passed, then two, then three. A flush crept up my cheeks. My heart hammered in my chest.

He just stared at me, one finger tapping impatiently on the pages of his open book.

For all my magic, nothing made me feel more invisible in this moment. I clenched my hand into a fist and let it drop. "All right, then. I guess...I'll see you around..."

Turning on my heel, I fled. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I muttered all the way to the front of the library where I reserved my books and raced back to the female dormitories.

***

"What are you drawing?" Rixon's deep voice jolted me. I snapped the pages of my sketch journal closed, quickly wrapping the leather strap around and around. I ignored the flush that crept up my neck, hoping to gods he hadn't seen what I'd been working on. I didn't share my drawings with anyone...ever.

I held my journal in my lap and glanced at him. Where'd he come from? Had I been so oblivious to have missed his approach? Looking away, I slipped the sketchbook in Jarrow's saddle bags and faced forward again, tucking my pencil behind my ear for later.

"Ignoring me now?"

I tutted but still didn't answer. All around us, the wild was quiet, eerily so. We'd been traveling for two days. Aside from our brief rests or to make camp, we'd remained on our horses.

At least the landscape had changed, flattening out some. It was the mountains in the distance I'd been drawing. The way they jutted up like giants, white peaks hidden in the clouds. I wanted to document as much of this journey as I could.

"Is silence to be our currency then?" Rixon asked, a taunting edge to his voice.

"Hasn't it always been?" I snapped, realizing too late that he'd goaded me. "You set the precedent, ignoring me all those times in the library, never once speaking." I hesitated before adding, "You know, I was rather convinced you preferred grunting to conversation."

There was a long hesitation and then—

Rixon's booming laugh echoed all around us. I stiffened in my seat, warmth pooling in my stomach. His head was thrown back, his shoulders heaving, his face lit in a smile. He even wiped an eye.

I liked it immediately—his smile. It looked better on him than I could have imagined, and suddenly I wanted to see more of them. But I pushed that thought down deep, tucking it away.

At last, he sighed and straightened. "Believe me, Lady Witch, now that we're tied together, grunts won't suffice. Unless...that is...you'd prefer grunts of a different kind?"

My heart stopped beating. But I ignored the last part and said, "One word sentences, then. Since that's nearly all you've used for the past two days. Food. Camp. Rest. Sleep," I mimicked. "I'm rather convinced you're a dimwit. At least you can use a sword," I muttered darkly.

But of course, I knew he wasn't stupid. I'd seen him reading plenty in the library.

He grunted, again, but didn't deny my words. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to the landscape. The only difficulty was, I was highly aware of him riding beside me. Most often, he took the lead, or fell back to insure our tracks weren't noticeable.

I risked another glance at him, only to find his eyes on me, darting over me. My gaze fell to his arm and I glared. He hadn't let me heal it, hadn't let me look at it. The blood was no longer seeping into the bandages, at least.

When I'd offered, he'd frowned and then refused. I hadn't gotten past my annoyance to offer again. Maybe I'd let him die of infection.

We didn't speak until we made camp that night, and even then, not immediately. It was our third night of sleeping on the hard ground. I knew it would be a grueling journey, long nights in the wild supplemented by nights in the forts and outposts we passed.

Settlements had grown more sporadic in Raeria. Once there had been sprawling farm towns, individuals who lived out on their own, but they had dwindled greatly with the increase of demons and the decrease of witches. Now days, many chose to migrate behind high walls and the wards of protection they offered.

From the other side of the fire, I watched Rixon remove his sword as he began to move through the twenty methods of swordsmanship, each named for various movements against demons. His body was...perfect. Muscle in all the right places, honed from years of training followed by more years spent in the wild. It was impossible to look away, and frankly, I didn't care if he caught me staring.

Each of his movements was deft, calculated. I couldn't help the envy that crept into my chest. It was one of the things I'd dreaded most about leaving the Citadel, giving up my lessons with Herrin.

Rixon moved from Kollm on the Rocks to Jarg in the Woods bringing his sword around in a slowly controlled sweeping motion. Each of his muscles engaged, bunching and flexing beneath the beige tunic he'd rolled up to his elbows. His golden skin was several shades darker than mine, a warm bronze. Soon he was sweating enough that his shirt clung in all the right places. Still, I didn't look away. When his arm swept around in a wide arc, he winced.

I looked at his forearm and clenched my jaw, making a split decision. "Enough," I said, standing. "Put your sword away so that I can heal your arm." It wasn't a command—not the kind that pulled on our bond. I could feel it there, buzzing, taunting me to use it. I wouldn't.

He hesitated, mid motion. "Lady Witch, I assure you that—"

"I wasn't asking," I said, coating my voice in sweetness. Still, this was order; I expected him to follow it.

He eyed me, his jaw working. Smartly, he gave a brief jerk of his head before sheathing his sword.

There was enough fire to see by. Fires were dangerous in the wild, a death sentence without the proper wards against the light, heat, and smoke. I'd found methods for all. What I hadn't mastered in my lessons I made up for with time spent in the library.

I took a seat by the fire, patting the ground beside me. "Come." Now that was a word I was sure he understood, given the depth of his vocabulary. Perhaps if I used enough one word sentences, we'd speak the same language. The smug thought almost left me smiling.

He hesitated then sank to the ground far enough away that I rolled my eyes. So I scooted over and closed the distance between us, getting comfortable on my knees. I couldn't ignore the brush of contact between my knees and his thighs. The warmth that sparked between us. It left my heart galloping.

Ignoring the sudden thrill at what I was doing, I took his arm and began removing the bandages. He turned to granite, holding so still I wasn't sure he breathed. "Shit," I murmured, evaluating the gash. A wash of emotion was warring inside me. Guilt, for not insisting earlier. Anger, that he'd been so adamant against my healing. Worry, for the pain he was in.

Thankfully, Tharn claws weren't poisonous. This was far deeper than I'd expected, and it didn't look like it was healing properly. I looked up at him, unable to contain the anger in my voice. "If you ever, ever try to hide something like this from me again..."

His eyes roved over my face, taking in my expression, widening a little at what he saw. I expected him to turn defensive. He huffed. "It won't happen again, Lady Witch. Not when you glare at me so."

To make a point, I glared at him a beat longer, just to be sure. Then I nodded, returning to the wound. It had swelled along the edges, signs of infection setting in. Stupid, infuriating male.

Tunneling down into my well of magic, I felt around its boundaries. I'd spent some setting wards over the past few days, but those were tied to the land. They didn't drain me once I put them in place. Taking a few strands from deep inside, I funneled them out, running my left thumb along the length of his wound.

He didn't make a sound, even though the heat from healing was painful. He didn't strike me as a male who would complain about much of anything. Especially not to me.

Not all witches mastered healing. Even those who did, only mastered certain kinds. Flesh wounds, mostly. Setting bones, cleansing infection, repairing organs...those were the truly challenging forms of magic. My Human Studies in Magic class hadn't gone deeper than common demon inflictions. I'd begged the Citadel's healer, Juna, to train me outside of our regular lessons. Only after agreeing to hard labor around her infirmary for nearly a year did she take me under her wing.

The white glow of magic along Rixon's wound ate up the budding infection, diminishing the swelling before knitting his skin back together. When I finished, there wasn't so much as a scar. I didn't drop his arm. I ran a fingertip over the smooth skin, almost caressing, unable to help myself. He shivered beneath my touch. I felt his exhale rustle the flyaways around my face. My eyes snapped up to his.

He looked at me, unblinking. Everything around us fell away. His eyes dropped to my lips and my heart galloped. He shook himself and his expression tightened.

I increased my grip on his wrist. Suddenly, I didn't want to let him go. I was tempted to stroke my thumb over his veins but stopped myself. My eyes darted to the scar on his forehead. "An adequate witch can heal flesh wounds. Did you get that scar before, or after you were under Ena's care?"

My words jarred him. I shouldn't have said anything, damn it, but after years of wondering, the words just...slipped out. "I...I'm sorry."

I released his wrist right as he pulled it away. He was on his feet in an instant, his back to me, walking towards where we'd left the horses. I watched him, uncertain how to feel.

When he returned, it was with travel rations. I regarded him warily. "Eat." He dropped the cloth-wrapped pouch into my lap then stalked off. I waited, almost wishing he'd turn around. He took up watch. Like each of the other nights, he insisted on it, facing away from me to look out over the wilderness.

Sighing, I took a bite of dried beef, chewing without really tasting. Something had passed between us, and I didn't know how I felt about it. I wasn't interested in getting close to him, in getting close to anyone. I'd locked that part of myself away. Yet, I was angry because of the way he made my pulse race. Not to mention, confused.

Beyond my emotions, there were still plenty of unanswered questions. He hadn't wanted me to heal him. Why? And when I'd insisted, why was he so surprised?

Growing worry pooled in my stomach. I was well aware of the relationships most witches had with their subservient wielders. The way most of them treated their males. What kind of witch had Ena been? And what had she done to turn him to stone? More importantly, would I ever shatter the exterior and get back what I hoped was lurking beneath? Did I want to? What would happen if I did?

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