is decision about us alone.”

He opens his mouth to argue and I shock myself when a growl rumbles out of my chest. Something’s changing on his face, so I press forward before he can stop me.

“No, Roark.” I select my words carefully, refusing to look away from him, to give in any way. “Six years ago, you chose me. To torment, to target, to ignore when it suited you. I don’t know why and I don’t care. But doing that made other people notice me and my magick. If a war breaks out and they come after me again, it’ll be your fault.”

It’s like I’ve unleashed the ley line on him. He tenses and watches me, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest.

“Help me learn to use my magick without burning out. Once I know what I’m doing and can take care of myself, you can walk away with a clear conscience and never look back.”

He doesn’t speak, not right away. I watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, the flutter of those dark lashes against his cheek. The silence lasts so long I expect him to get up and walk away from me. Instead, he asks, “That’s all you want?”

I look at his mouth without meaning to. He notices. A pale flush grows over his cheekbones, but he doesn’t hide it. He’s testing me, hoping I hand him a reason to quickly deny my request.

So I force myself to pretend I don’t care about how he smiled when we fought side by side or how his mouth fit perfectly against mine. I’m going to be a target when this all goes to hell, and my parents need my help. Those are my priorities.

“Yes,” I lie, “that’s all I want.”

He takes a deep breath. Two. Clears his throat. And asks quietly, “When do you want to start?”

Chapter Eleven

Roark

Smith’s back hits the mat with a dull thud. He bounces and skids a few more feet before stopping. Thank the Goddess no one else is in the gym with us. We’ve been going at it for almost an hour and he’s spent more time on the ground than he has upright, incapable of raising the necessary counter-curse fast enough no matter how many times we practice. He’s come a long way since our earliest practices, when he either couldn’t access the ley line at all, or drew on it too quickly and with too much force. He’s starting to pull on smaller amounts of it, but too inconsistently for true success. Every time we leave this gym in failure, my frustration grows. There has to be some kind of middle ground with his power, but I’ll be damned if I know how to find it.

Worse than my own ignorance is Smith’s constant gratitude for my fumbling efforts. Any time I spontaneously change our exercises or throw a new challenge at him, he adjusts without complaint. He takes the pain, ices his new bruises when we get back to the apartment, and steps onto the mat the next day.

His dogged determination to learn and improve is admirable. And sometimes foolhardy. He still hasn’t moved.

“Can you get up?” I call to him.

He mumbles something unintelligible, but lifts an arm to give me a thumbs-up. It takes a few more minutes, but Smith finally rolls over and pushes up off the ground. His hair is sweat-darkened and the skin exposed by his tank top has reddened from exercise and mat burns. He still manages to grin and shake his head.

“I almost had you that time,” he tells me, returning to his starting position a few feet away. He stretches his head from side to side to loosen his neck and settles comfortably onto the balls of his feet. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“No.”

“Bullshit.” He points at my face.

“What?”

My confusion only grows when he taps a finger to his temple. I didn’t think it was possible for him to grin any wider, but somehow he accomplishes it. Cautiously, I lift my hand and mimic his earlier gesture. The only thing I feel is a single drop of sweat.

“Told you,” he says proudly. “Pretty soon I’ll be beating you.”

Without a word, I point at him. The hex—a flash freeze this time, for change of pace—hits before there’s any stirring in the ley line. He gasps when I release him a second later and folds in half, hands on his knees, supporting himself through a coughing fit. The ley line bursts over his skin in a delayed defense. I lunge forward the moment its electric pulse hits my glamour and grab hold of his shoulder, drawing off the excess power until he can tamp it down again. At least he’s getting faster at that.

“Unfair,” he wheezes once the threat of spontaneous combustion has passed.

“I’m so sorry. I forgot how your attackers always give you a sporting chance,” I say.

He chuckles and reaches up to settle a hand over mine lightly. It’s the ghost of a touch, but the ease of Smith’s motion amazes me nonetheless. He acts like we’ve always been this close, this familiar with each other, and I ache for it to be true, instead of being a practice measure. After our first few practice sessions, he admitted physical contact helps him focus on protecting something other than himself; it figures that such an absurd heroic impulse would help him learn stronger control. The moment he’s confident he can hold the ley line in check, his hand drops and I’m free to pull away.

I try not to regret it.

“Again,” he says.

The ley line shifts under his skin. I’ve been pushing him and his magickal control too hard. He straightens and heads back to his starting position, but he moves slower this time. He’s getting tired. The realization makes a dangerously unacceptable hint of concern twist behind my ribs.

Tags: M.A. Grant Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net