Three Wolves, One Irresistible Pull novel · Chapter 3 of 24
Chapter 3: The Yard
Brenna spars Jorund in front of the Host and he pins her; when she says let go, his hands open before he decides.
Caelan's letter said the same thing, in the same neat hand, with a different threat.
"The pass rights of Silverlake will be reviewed at the close of the Trial," it read.
"A prompt resolution is in the interest of your pack."
"He wants it over," Caelan said.
"He wants me to pick one of you by morning."
"He wants you to pick either of us," he said, "so he can chain whichever one you pick."
I stared at him.
He lifted the bottle with a crooked smile.
"Wine?"
"No."
"Then I'll drink it myself."
He drank from the neck and handed it over.
I didn't take it.
"Why did you ask for the Trial, Caelan?"
"Because I'd have been standing there like a post otherwise."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one I've got tonight."
He said it lightly, but his eyes were not light.
He looked at me for a long second and then glanced down at the crushed letter in my hand.
"I'll tell you the rest," he said, "when I can stand to."
He went out.
I slept badly.
At dawn, I took the practice yard.
The Host trained at first light every day, and I liked to be among them.
I had barely finished stretching when the shadow fell across the sand.
"General."
Jorund Segrave stood at the gate in his shirtsleeves with two wooden swords.
He held one out, hilt first.
"You said a rule," he said.
"In the yard."
Every soldier on the field stopped moving.
I took the sword.
We circled.
He was bigger than me and slower, but he stepped like a man who had learned not to waste a motion.
I came in low and cracked his knuckles.
He grunted and caught my second strike on his forearm.
"You cheat," he said.
"I win."
"In your dreams."
He swung hard, and I turned it, and we went around the sand again with the Host hooting at the edges.
At the end of the first bout, I had a bruise on my ribs and he had two on his arm.
Eira shouted something encouraging.
The second bout, he lost his sword.
I stepped in to take the point, and he did something I had not seen coming.
He dropped the sword, caught my wrist, and pulled me into his chest.
We went down together in the sand, and he rolled on top of me.
His weight pinned my hips.
His hand held both my wrists above my head.
His face was a hand's breadth from mine, hot, dark-eyed, breathing hard.
I felt every inch of him through our clothes.
I hadn't been held down by a man in years.
I hadn't been held by anyone in years.
"Yield," he said, low.
"No."
"General."
"You'll have to break my arm first."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"I could."
"Try."
He didn't.
His thumb pressed lightly into the pulse on my wrist.
His eyes dropped to my mouth and stayed there.
My whole body went tight and bright, and I was suddenly very aware that four thousand soldiers were watching.
I didn't want him off me.
That frightened me more than the sword.
"Let go," I said, quiet.
I meant it as a command, the way I'd said it to a hundred enemies.
It came out lower than I meant, almost a growl, a note I had never made before.
His hands opened.
They opened at once, flat.
He rolled off me and lay there on his back in the sand, staring up at the sky, his chest heaving.
"That wasn't me," he said, hoarse.
"What?"
"I didn't decide to let go."
I sat up.
"I felt it, General.
"I wanted to keep you, and my hands opened."
The yard was dead silent.
Across the sand, at the gate, Caelan Gournay was standing very still, the smile gone from his face.
He had seen it, too.
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