A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 13

"Ladies, it's good to be back," Cassian greeted them, striding by them as a general assessing his troops as they grunted from ground level. Right now, Gwyn wasn't exactly sure she shared his sentiments. Her shaky arms burned like hellfire. And her core quivered as she pressed her chest off the floor for the hundredth time. Push-ups were a punishment directly from the gods themselves. And on a day like today? Between the unexpected morning heat and the previous?

Pure, unadulterated torture.

Her stomach gurgled and roiled, threatening to revolt. Oh no. No, she couldn't do it here. Not in front of him. She stopped at the top, holding in a plank position, swallowing.

"Gwyneth!" Cassian yelled, singling her out. Because, of course, he would. "Vomit on your own time, Valkyrie. You still have fifty more."

She scowled toward the barely audible laughing snort across the rooftop. There was Azriel, pretending to take an inventory of their practice gear, sending her an I-told-you-so with those hazel eyes. And she was two seconds from wiping that smug smirk off his handsome face.

Handsome? Dammit all to hell.

Gwyn mouthed a curse his way, and when he sent her a half-grin, she couldn't help but smile back. Then it was back to push-ups—and trying not to throw up.

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He'd warned her last night not to eat those damn pastries. If she managed to vomit all over the roof deck, she'd pin Azriel with the blame. To be fair, he may have been the one to suggest she couldn't devour all of them. Not like he could.

Az was known for having a hollow leg and a lead belly. Drinking and eating in excess didn't bother him in the slightest. An iron stomach came in handy when you spied in territories where one had to drink and dine in unseemly places. Or hunt and eat what you caught, regardless of the animal.

Last night, they returned to the quaint bistro and pastry shop they had visited a week ago. The first time they'd stepped inside the restaurant, Gwyn panicked, eyeing the exits, and paced as if she expected danger at every turn.

So he'd guided her outside, letting her inhale and exhale the clean air while strolling alongside the Sidra. And once she'd collected herself, Gwyn asked to hold his hand, gripping it like a lifeline on a turbulent sea, and strode in the eatery's doors by his side.

Yesterday, they brought their steaming containers over to the now-familiar park. Unlike last time, he'd come prepared, packing a small checkered blanket to spread over the grass. And that's where they sat, listening to music drifting across the river while enjoying the delicious meal. Though his supper of tender braised meat was marvelous as always, it was the company that he'd savored the most.

Cauldon, the girl could eat. Never once had he considered appreciating a female's healthy appetite—until now. Gwyn dug into her meal of sauced roasted chicken with a side and fried potatoes with vigor. No utensils either. And not a care in the world that sauce coated her lips or fingers.

Everything was proper, friendly. As he tried to ignore the fact that Gwyn was wearing his borrowed black tunic over the crop top. Despite her height, his top was long, acting more like a dress than a shirt, covered in his scent. And that alone was enough to send his mind racing into dangerous territory.

But then the tip of her tongue had darted out between those lips. Licking. Cleaning away the sauce from around her mouth. Bringing her fingers to her mouth, Gwyn sucked off the remnants of the gravy. It had to be wholly innocent in intent, but...

Holy. Fucking. Gods. And he was finding himself having to shift his position. Praying to the Mother and any gods who listened, that Gwyn didn't scent him. Or notice the bulge pressing against the front of his pants.