Clipped

Chapter 40.

​The afternoon sun was a cold, pale disk hanging over the peaks, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone courtyard. Rhiannon was leaning against the outer wall of the Great Hall, her fingers absently tracing the new, heavy weight against her upper thigh through the fabric of her training leathers. The silver hilt was a cold promise, a secret she shared only with Sora.

​She heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of Fenris’s boots before she saw him. He moved with a restless, prowling energy, his shoulders set in a hard line that mirrored the tension she had seen in Sora earlier that morning. His blue eyes were clouded, a storm of protective instinct swirling just beneath the surface.

​"Rhiannon," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He stopped several paces away, giving her the space he always afforded her, but his focus was entirely, intensely on her. "I have just come from the scout’s report. There are things you need to know about the foothills. The peace we’ve held-"

​"Sora already told me," she interrupted softly.

​Fenris blinked, his momentum momentarily stalled. He searched her face for the familiar flicker of a panic attack, for the glazed eyes or the trembling hands. He found none. Instead, there was a quiet, sharp-edged resolve he hadn’t seen before.

​"She told you about the mercenaries? The collectors?" he pressed, his voice tightening.

​"She told me they were vultures," Rhiannon replied. "And she told me I needed to be the one who burns them."

​She took a step toward him, her heart doing that strange, jumbled dance it only did in his presence. To prove her point, she reached down, her fingers hooking into the hem of her tunic and lifting the fabric just enough to reveal the dark leather strap and the silver-wrapped hilt of the dagger.

​"She gave me this," she said.

​Fenris’s gaze dropped. As soon as his eyes landed on the pale, exposed curve of her thigh and the wicked silver of the blade pressed against her skin, the shift was violent.

​The blue of his eyes didn't just swirl; it vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, molten explosion of gold. His pupils dilated until they were thin, predatory slits, and a low, involuntary growl vibrated in the back of his throat. His wolf, Malphas, didn't just want to protect her; he wanted to claim the space she had just revealed. The electricity between them, usually a hum, suddenly felt like a live wire.

​Fenris jerked his head away, shaking it violently as if trying to physically dislodge the wolf’s influence. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, and he let out a long, ragged breath of air that hissed through his teeth. For a heartbeat, the Alpha of the Nightshade looked like he was losing a war with his own blood.

​"That's..." he began, his voice strained, before he cleared his throat and forced his composure back into its rigid, disciplined shell. He looked back at her, his eyes returning to a forced, piercing blue, though the edges were still rimmed with gold. "That’s good. Sora is wise. A hidden bite is often the most lethal."

​Rhiannon let the fabric fall back into place, completely oblivious to the internal struggle she had just triggered. She hadn't seen a predator’s hunger; she had only seen a warrior’s intensity.

​"She said I need to learn to use it," Rhiannon said, stepping closer. "But Fenris... how? I’ve practiced with the rhythm and the blue fire, and you’ve taught me how to break a grip. But a knife? How do we train with a knife without... well, without someone getting hurt?"

​Fenris looked at her, his gaze lingering on her face to avoid looking back at her leg. The tension in his jaw was still there, a lingering aftershock of the wolf’s roar.

​"Knife work is different from the ring," Fenris explained, his voice slowly regaining its gravelly authority. "It is not about strength. It is about the gap. It is about waiting for the moment your enemy thinks they have won, and then finding the softest part of them."

​He took a slow step into her space, his heat acting as a familiar, grounding weight.

​"We will use wooden trainers first, but eventually, you must feel the weight of the silver in your hand. You must learn to draw it in a single motion, faster than a man can blink. If they get close enough to see the blade, it is already too late for them."

​He held out his hand, palm up, a silent invitation for her to begin the lesson.

​"Show me the draw, Rhia. Let’s see if Sora’s garter is as fast as she claims."

​Rhiannon reached for the hilt, her fingers brushing the silver wire. The static in her head was quiet, replaced by the mechanical focus of the weapon. She didn't feel like a victim. She felt like a storm that was finally learning how to aim its lightning.

​"Again," Fenris commanded, his eyes tracking her every move with a focus that was no longer just about training, but about the survival of the woman he was no longer sure he could ever let go.