​Chapter 15_Scars and Smirks

The smell of dried blood, rusted iron, and stale sweat hung thick in the narrow armory alcove, so heavy it coated the back of my throat like grease.

​I sat on the edge of a splintered wooden bench, my head bowed, staring at the small pool of crimson forming between my leather boots. My right sleeve was ripped open from the shoulder down to the forearm, the dark, coarse wool shredded where the dull edge of an iron broadsword had caught me during the final drill.

​It wasn't a fatal wound. It wasn't even a deep one. But the skin was torn, revealing a clean, four-inch line of raw flesh that throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening heat every time my heart gave a heavy thud.

​"Hold still, pup," Banjo growled from above me.

​He didn't wait for my permission. His large, calloused hand clamped around my upper arm like a bronze clamp, squeezing just hard enough to make the bruised muscle underneath scream. He shoved me back against the cold stone wall, pinning my shoulder so firmly that I couldn't move an inch even if I tried.

​"I can clean it myself," I rasped, forcing my voice down into that raspy, forced gravel register that made my throat ache. I reached with my left hand to yank my arm out of his grip, but he didn't budge. He was a mountain of muscle, sun-kissed skin, and stubborn arrogance.

​"You can't even hold a needle with that hand right now, Kael," Banjo shot back, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger under the dim light of the single tallow candle flickering between us. "You were sloppy out there today. Clumsy. If that third-year brute had been swinging a live steel blade instead of a blunted practice sword, your arm would be lying in the mud right next to your pride."

​I gritted my teeth until my jaw popped, staring up at him through the dark tufts of hair hanging over my eyes. "It was a mistake."

​"Mistakes get you buried in a ditch with no name on your headstone," he snapped.

​He leaned down, pulling a small earthenware jar of harsh, unrefined alcohol and a clean strip of rag from the leather pouch at his waist. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spat the wooden stopper onto the straw-covered floor, and sloshed the clear liquid liberally over the open tear on my forearm.

​A white-hot wave of agony shot straight up my arm, biting into my nerve endings like a hundred hot needles.

​My entire body jerked violently. I gasped a sharp, high sound that nearly escaped my throat before I caught it, slamming my mouth shut so hard I bit the inner lining of my cheek. Blood filled my mouth, warm and copper-salty, but I refused to let out a scream. I refused to give him the satisfaction. Kael Vane wouldn't cry out over a flesh scrape. Kael wouldn't wince.

​Banjo watched my face intently, his thumb digging harder into the soft flesh of my upper arm as he watched the muscle twitch under his touch. There was a dark, dangerous scrutiny in his eyes, a calculated, probing glare that made the blood run cold in my veins. He was testing me. He was pushing the pain right to the ragged edge to see if the polished, highborn lordling would break down and sob like a girl.

​"Not even a flinch, huh?" Banjo whispered, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrated against the narrow stone walls of the alcove. "You're either the toughest little bastard in this whole academy, or you're completely dead inside."

​"I'm fine," I spat out, my breath coming in short, shallow ragged puffs. "Just patch it and let me go."

​"Shut up."

​He didn't use the coarse thread or the bone needle right away. Instead, he dipped a fresh corner of the cloth into the sting-juice and pressed it directly into the center of the bleeding gash, turning it slightly to scrub away the dirt and rusty iron shavings embedded in the skin.

​The pain was blinding. Tears stung the hot corners of my eyes, but I forced them back with pure, unadulterated hatred, locking my jaw so tight my head throbbed.

​Banjo paused. He felt the tremor running through my frame not the fear of a weakling, but the raw, physical vibration of a body pushed far past its limit.

​His eyes drifted down from my face to the torn wool of my shoulder. Where the tunic had ripped, the stiff, unbleached linen of my tight chest bindings was exposed, slightly frayed at the edges and soaked through with cold sweat.

​The air in the tiny alcove instantly changed. The tense, aggressive energy between us didn't disappear; it curdled into something far heavier, far more suffocating.

​Banjo didn't pull the cloth away. His hand stopped moving. His large, warm fingers softened their bruising grip on my bicep, shifting slowly until his thumb rested right against the exposed edge of the linen binding near my collarbone. His callouses scraped against my skin rough, hot, and terrifyingly close to where the curve of my chest began.

​My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I was terrified he could feel the rhythm rattling straight through the cloth into his palm.

​"You wrap yourself tight, don't you?" Banjo muttered, his voice losing its harsh, mocking bite. It sounded thicker now, lower, carrying a strange, dark weight that sent a sudden, electric shiver straight down my spine.

​"It's for... protection," I managed to say, my throat so dry the words felt like sand. "Support for the sword arm."

​Banjo didn't answer right away. He slowly dragged the wet rag along the length of my forearm, wiping away the blood with a light, almost reverent touch that contrasted violently with the brutal scrubbing he’d done seconds before. He leaned in closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the faint candle glow, surrounding me entirely in his heat, his shadow, and the scent of wind and woodsmoke that seemed to cling to his skin.

​He was so close I could see the tiny flecks of gold in his dark brown irises, and could feel the heavy, steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling against mine.

​"You're too small for this place, Kael," he murmured, his eyes lingering on my mouth for a long, agonizing second before rising back to lock onto mine. "You're thin. You've got bone where you should have muscle, and you bleed too easily."

​"I hold my own," I rasped, trying to pull back, but my spine was already pressed flat against the stone wall.

​"You don't hold anything," Banjo growled, his hand suddenly moving from my arm up to the back of my neck. His thick fingers tangled into the dark, sweat-damp hair at the base of my skull, holding me firmly in place. "You drag yourself through every drill like you're waiting for someone to put a blade through your heart and end the misery. You think I don't see it?"

​"You don't see anything—"

​"I see a stupid, reckless pup who's going to get himself killed if he keeps pushing into fights he can't win," Banjo interrupted, his thumb lightly stroking the back of my neck. The touch was possessive, rough, and so shockingly warm that my breath caught in my chest. "If you're going to get hurt, it's going to be because I put you in the dirt. Not some third-year noble trash who doesn't know how to handle a sword."

​The silence between us stretched long and thin, charged with a terrifying, unspoken heat. He wasn't looking at me like a rival anymore. He wasn't looking at me like the Lord of House Vane. The dark, aggressive light in his eyes had turned into something protective, territorial, and dangerously intimate, a shift that made my head spin with confusion and dread.

​Did he know? Or was he just drawn to the fracture in the armor?

​"Banjo..." I whispered, the name slipping out before I could stop it.

​He tilted his head slightly, his mouth mere inches from mine, his grip on my neck tightening just enough to pull me an inch off the bench. "What, little bird?"

​The taunt was old, but the tone wasn't. It was soft. Heavy.

​Before I could answer, before I could shove his chest and break the suffocating spell holding us together, a sharp, metallic sound echoed down the narrow corridor outside the armory.

​Screeech.

​It was the heavy iron door at the end of the hall, swinging open on its rusted hinges.

​Banjo didn't pull back instantly. He let his thumb drag slowly across my jawline, leaving a thin streak of my own blood across my skin, before he finally stepped back into the shadows of the alcove.

​I gasped, pulling air into my starved lungs, my fingers instantly clutching the torn fabric of my tunic to hide the binding underneath.

​Heavy, rhythmic footsteps approached down the passageway the slow, unmistakable march of steel-shod boots belonging to the High Inquisitor's elite guard.

​A tall figure stepped into the doorway of the alcove, draped in a black velvet cloak, a long silver scabbard swinging at his hip. He didn't look at the Banjo. His cold, milky-white eyes locked instantly onto me, floating over my torn sleeve and the bloody rag in Banjo's hand.

​"Lord Kael Vane," the guard rasped, his voice sounding like iron grinding against stone. He pulled an official scroll from his belt, its red wax seal already broken. "You are summoned to the High Citadel immediately. A messenger from your family estate has arrived under escort."

​My heart stopped beating.

​My family estate?

​House Vane was empty. My mother was dead, and my father was locked in the royal dungeons three hundred leagues south. There were no messengers left to send.

​The guard stepped closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "He brought a personal servant who claims to have raised you from birth, Lord Vane. He insists on verifying your identity before the Council.”