“You aren’t my enemy,” she pointed out.
“I’m glad to hear that, but you still need to learn to strike true. You can always heal me again.”
“True…” She gazed at him, uncertain.
“I’d rather you hurt me a little bit now than deal me a mortal wound by getting injured or killed. I couldn’t survive that.”
Her eyes widened, and he considered maybe he’d said too much. “Besides,” he added with a grin, “at this rate, you’ll have no hair left, and I’ll be untouched. I’m really not worried.” Drawing a new blade, he spun it through his fingers, picking out a new lock of hair to sever.
She growled low in her throat. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would, and I will,” he said, letting his grim resolve show. “Or maybe I’ll just aim for that sleeping gown. It won’t last long against my blades and would be a fun striptease.” He leered at her. “Finally I’ll get to see you naked—a dream come true.”
With a shocked gasp, she blushed hot. “You—” She bit down on repeating the challenge, possibly reading his utterly serious intent. Briefly, a jaguar stood where she’d been, then she reappeared in her fighting leathers, her hair tightly braided back, a smug look on her face.
“Do you think that will spare you?” he murmured, just to see her blush deepen. “I could still slice those leathers off you.”
“But you won’t,” she replied with confidence, “because you’d risk cutting me, and you would never hurt me.”
That was true. Too bad she knew it. “Moving on. What was your first mistake?”
“Pulling my punch.”
“No, that was your second mistake.” Scooping up the knife belt from the floor, he dangled it in her face. “Never, ever throw away your blades.”
“You throw your knives all the time,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but I know what I’m doing, and it’s still a calculated risk. You will do best to keep your blades in your hands.” Threading the belt through the loops on her pants, he settled it low on her hips, moving the sheaths to the optimum position. “How’s that for drawing?”
He glanced up as he asked, finding her face very close to his. The storm in her gray eyes had subsided, leaving them the clear misty color of the sea just before sunrise. “I feel the same,” she said, briefly confusing him. “When I thought they might be right, that you really were dead, I thought I might break apart into a million fragments.”
For once, no clever remark leapt to his tongue. He smoothed her hair back from her face, careful not to brush her skin. It clung like silk to his fingers, and he knew she was right—he would never jeopardize her beautiful hair, he loved it too much. The thought of slowly cutting away her clothing, however… Well, it was a good thing he was getting practiced at exercising iron control over his lust around her. Her lips parted, her kitten tongue darting out to wet them. So tempting to kiss her just then.
But time was short, and this was more important.
“We’ll just have to keep each other alive, then,” he replied. “Now, try drawing your blades.”
With a sigh—was she disappointed he hadn’t kissed her? If so that might work to his advantage—she drew one blade. He shook his head. “No, both at once.”
She tried again, far too slow and clumsy. Biting back his impatience, as she clearly hadn’t practiced this at all, he moved behind her. “Like this.”
Grasping her wrists over her leather cuffs, he aligned his arms to hers. Deliberately slow, he guided her hands to the sheathed daggers, though that didn’t help to adjust her grip on the hilts. “Do you have your gloves?”
“You can touch my hands,” she said, sounding like she was holding her breath.
He caught his own breath. “Are you sure?”
She huffed out a small laugh. “Jak, you kissed me before, on the table.”
He appreciated that she didn’t call it a bier. “You were healing me at the time, so I thought it might not be as painful.” In truth, he hadn’t been thinking at all, but he didn’t want to admit that. It had been unforgivably selfish of him. But she’d looked so beautiful, and he wanted her so badly…
“It wasn’t,” she breathed, leaning her delicate body back against his, her deliciously round bottom nestling against his groin. “It felt… wonderful. I think—I’m pretty sure you can touch me now.”
“I can?” His chest felt tight, holding in too much hope. “What changed?”
“A matter of familiarity and trust,” she whispered. “When you let me inside your mind to use the Star through you, I think you became like a part of me.”
He groaned, releasing her wrists to slide his arms around her, one embracing her slim waist, the other splayed over her flat belly, perilously close to slipping just a bit more to cup her sex. Sternly ordering his hands to stay put, he buried his face in her fragrant hair, holding her against him, indulging in the longing and the temporary sating of his craving for her. He wanted to take her, right then and there.
He wanted her to stay alive even more.
She tried to turn in his arms, but he stopped her. “No.”
“Jak, if this is our only chance to be together, then—”
“Then we’ll have to make sure it isn’t our only chance. That means using this time wisely.”
“I never realized how single-minded you are,” she grumbled.
Delighted with her, about out of his mind with desire, he pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there to taste her skin, to savor the scent, texture, and flavor of her. Savoring her answering tremble of need. “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” he murmured, “as you have turned out to be the one person I’m single-mindedly fixed on.”
Then he made himself let go of her and put his hands over hers—lightly at first, testing for any signs of discomfort from her—then lacing their fingers together when she didn’t flinch. Hers felt fine as lace, soft and elegantly boned. “Is this all right?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she replied on a feathery sigh. “It’s lovely.”
Guiding her hands to the hilts of her Silversteel daggers, he wrapped both their hands around them. “Like this. Feel that angle? Hold them like you might an egg—don’t crush the shell, but hold on firmly enough not to drop them. Good. Now draw them like this, easing them from the sheaths. No—don’t jerk them. Treat them like a cat you wish to pet, ease them along.”
“Are they cats or eggs?” she asked, but on a laugh—and she was doing much better.
“Whatever metaphor works.” With reluctance, he released her hands and came back in front of her. “Show me. Good. Much better.”
“Will wonders never cease?” she griped, but she looked pleased with herself.
“I want you to practice that,” he told her. “Every spare moment. Over and over until you don’t think about it.”
“Is that why you’re always playing with your blades?” she asked curiously. “I’ve wondered.”
He smiled, charmed beyond reason at the idea of her wondering about him. “Keep practicing. Don’t stop just to talk. You can do both at once. Your resheathing should be as smooth as your draw. Don’t fumble for the opening or scrape the sides of the sheaths. Better. And yes, Mom taught me this same way. Having a blade in your hand should feel natural, like a part of you. At this point, I have to remind myself not to draw my blades and play with them. Royalty and diplomats don’t always respond well.”