The morning sun was sharp, reflecting off the damp stone of the castle courtyard. I stood there, dressed in simple leather trousers and a fitted tunic, feeling the "shiver" of the morning air. My shoulder still ached from the assassin's strike, but I couldn't stay in bed. In this world, knowledge was my only shield, but I needed to learn how to use a real one.
I heard the heavy thud of boots behind me before I saw him. The air grew warm, the scent of woodsmoke and ozone filling my senses.
"You should be resting," Alaric's voice rumbled.
I turned to find him standing there, looking like a god of war. He wasn't wearing a shirt, only a leather vest that showed the powerful muscles of his chest and the faint, shimmering scales that traced his ribs. His silver hair was tied back, and his golden eyes were narrowed with disapproval.
"I can't rest while people are trying to kill me from the shadows, Alaric," I said, my voice steady. "I need to learn how to defend myself. I won't always have you to catch me."
Alaric stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "You want to learn how to fight? You, who used to complain if a drop of wine touched your silk dress?"
"That woman is gone," I replied, looking him straight in the eyes. "Teach me."
A strange look passed over his face—a mix of irritation and a deep, growing fascination. He reached into a rack of weapons and pulled out a wooden practice sword, tossing it to me. I caught it, though the weight nearly pulled my injured shoulder.
"Fine," he hissed. "But do not cry when you fall."
The training began. It wasn't the "sweet" lesson I had imagined from the romance books I used to read. Alaric was a dragon, and dragons did not play. He moved with a predatory grace, his wooden sword clicking against mine with enough force to make my teeth rattle.
"Keep your feet apart," he commanded, circling me like a wolf. "Your balance is your life. If you tilt, you die."
I tried to follow his lead, but I was clumsy. I tripped over a loose stone and started to fall. Before I could hit the ground, a strong, hot arm caught me by the waist and pulled me back up. My back slammed against his bare chest, and I felt the heat of his skin through my tunic.
The "shiver" was so strong it made my breath hitch.
"You're distracted," Alaric whispered into my ear. His voice was low, sending a vibration through my whole body. "What are you looking at, Seraphina? My sword, or me?"
"You're too close," I managed to say, my heart thundering against my ribs.
"A killer will be closer," he rasped. He didn't let go. Instead, his hand moved up to cover mine on the hilt of the wooden sword. His skin was scorching, his touch making my mind go blank. "Hold it tighter. Like this."
He moved behind me, guiding my arms. It felt like an embrace, but one filled with tension. Every time my head tilted back, it brushed against his shoulder. I could hear his heartbeat—a deep, heavy sound that seemed to sync with my own.
In my past life, I had read about this scene a thousand times. The hero training the heroine. But in the book, Alaric was always cold and distant. Now, he was looking at me as if I were the only person in the world. He was obsessed with the mystery of me, and that obsession was turning into a fire he couldn't put out.
"Why are you doing this, Alaric?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Why are you personally training a woman you claim to hate?"
He froze. His grip on my hand tightened, his golden eyes darkening to the color of old honey. He turned me around in his arms so that I was forced to look at him. His face was inches from mine, his pupils slit like a dragon's.
"Because I can't figure you out," he confessed, his voice a raw growl. "Every time I think I have you trapped in a corner, you change the game. You save my life. You bleed for me. You look at me with eyes that say you know my soul."
He reached up, his thumb brushing against my lip. The touch was so soft, so different from the warrior I knew.
"The Seraphina I knew loved power. She loved money. But you..." he trailed off, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "You look at me as if I'm the only treasure you want."
"Maybe you are," I whispered.
The air between us seemed to catch fire. Alaric's hand moved to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. I could feel the dragon inside him roaring, the heat radiating off him so strongly that the moisture on the stones began to evaporate.
"I should send you away," he muttered, though he was pulling me closer. "I should lock you in the highest tower where you can't interfere with my heart."
"But you won't," I said, a small, brave smile touching my lips.
"No," he rasped. "I won't."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine. We stood there for a long time, the only sound the wind through the courtyard. He didn't kiss me—not yet—but the promise of it was there, heavy and sweet.
Just as he was about to speak, a loud voice broke the moment.
"Your Majesty! The Blessed Lady Elara has arrived!"
Alaric stiffened. The dragon-glow in his eyes flared with annoyance. He released me, though his hand lingered on my arm for a second too long.
The original heroine was here. The girl who was supposed to win his heart. I felt a pang of fear. Would the plot try to fix itself? Would he go back to the way he was in the book?
Alaric looked at the gates where a carriage decorated with white lilies was entering. Then, he looked back at me. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his expression hardening.
"Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice returning to its royal coldness. "She is here for the 'hero' she read about in the legends. But I think she is going to find that the King has already chosen his Queen."
I followed him, my heart heavy but determined. The "Blessed Lady" might have the plot on her side, but I had something she didn't. I had the truth of a woman who had loved Alaric before he even existed.
As we walked toward the entrance, I felt Alaric's hand brush against mine—a secret, possessive touch that no one else could see.
The war for his heart had officially begun.