𝙲𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚖(𝙰𝙲𝙾𝚃𝙰𝚁)

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔶-𝔣𝔦𝔳𝔢

     Feyre looked so good in those fighting leathers.

     They hugged her body, showing off her curves, and leaving me to stare pathetically. She didn't seem to notice as we approached Cassian for our first day of training.

     I was shivering in my own leathers, my arms wrapped around myself.

"We'll get you both acquainted with hand-to-hand combat," he said to us. "Then, you'll both practice on punching bags. Then we'll spar."

"I'll spar with Feyre, but not with you," I told Cassian, shaking my head.

"Oh, am I not good enough for you?" he teased me with a smirk. I shrugged, staring at the floor. I had a hard time being vulnerable. I always had.

"If . . ." I trailed off, trying to find the words without sounding pathetic. "If I spar with you, all I will see is my father. And then I'll freeze; I won't be able to fight."

     I couldn't meet his eyes as I mumbled the words, shame making my face burn. But he didn't look at me with pity; nor did he look at me with judgment.

"That's fine," he shrugged. "Then, you'll spar Feyre." I felt a wave of relief. Feyre brushed against my mental shield, sending comfort down to me.

     I'd always struggled to ask for accommodations. I used to ask Tamlin not to slam doors. I'd asked him to get rid of the sideboard in the library; I couldn't look at it without remembering the suffocating panic of being locked inside of it.

     I would beg Tam not to yell, not to break things, throw things, not to let those claws come out from under his skin. All of those things would make me feel like I was a child again, being berated and beaten by my father.

     Tamlin always brushed me off, saying that my requests were ridiculous, and Father couldn't hurt me anymore.

     Lucien, on the other hand, was more understanding. He told me he had seen the same thing with his mother. While he would tease me relentlessly and irritate me to no end, he'd always been gentle with me. I had always appreciated that.

     Cassian had us walk through hand-to-hand combat with him, then we practiced on punching bags.

     After an hour, my knuckles were aching. Feyre's arms were trembling, and I had to take a break to massage my fingers.

"This is because you're hitting on the wrong knuckles. Top two--pointer and middle finger--that's where the punches should connect. Hitting here will do more damage to you than to your opponent."

     I studied my bruised fingers, considering his words. I knew my punches were weak and pathetic, but at least this would lessen the pain.

"Get a drink," he said. "Then we're working on your cores. No point in learning to punch if you can't even hold your stance."

     I turned toward the sound of clashing blades in the open sparring ring across from us. Azriel and Rhys been sparring for nearly an hour, now. Despite the winter day, they were shirtless.

     I stared at the tattoos that covered the both of them. I'd also seen them on Cassian.

"We get the tattoos when we're initiated as Illyrian warriors--for luck and glory on the battlefield," Cassian said, following my stare.

     I was focusing in on Rhys, his muscles gleaming with sweat, his powerful thighs, the rippling strength in his back, surrounding those mighty, beautiful wings.

     When I finally glanced away, I noticed Feyre staring at him in the same manner.

"Rhys is out of shape and wont admit it, but Azriel is too polite to beat him into the dirt," Cassian said.