Green Jack

  Chapter 36

  Jane

  Jane swung her staff up as hard as she could, her palms burning with the effort. Caradoc’s staff slammed into hers, the iron guard ringing like a bell between her hands. The tremors rolled up her quivering arms to her shoulders “Keep your guard up,” Caradoc snapped in that low fierce voice. “This isn’t a recital.”

  The sun glared down at them between the leaves, Caradoc glared at her between the branches. She hoped fervently that he would attribute her flushed cheeks to the heat, instead of the fact that she was a furnace of mortification and frustration burning from the inside out. He thought she was spoiled and useless, and she was proving him right. She’d assumed that with enough training she could learn to fight, and he was proving her wrong. She wanted to start running and not stop until she was clear out of the Spirit Forest.

  Instead, she told herself to be stronger, be better; her mother’s voice cutting through her limp defeat. She had just enough time to bend her knees and brace herself as Caradoc came after her again. He was barely trying, and he was still so ferocious, it was mesmerizing. She stumbled back, tripping over a root. The end of his staff whistled toward her throat. She went sideways, pretending she was launching into a run. Instead, she darted right, sprinted.

  “Good!” Caradoc called out. She felt a small bloom of pride, right before he smacked her backside and sent her sprawling. She lay in the dirt, lungs cramped around a sharp breath. Her tailbone throbbed, her left palm stung. “You’re still not strong enough.” His dark honey hair was dry while hers was a damp mess of tangles and twigs.

  She closed her eyes, hiding a small ridiculous flash of hurt. He’d think her weak again, if he thought of her at all. It wasn’t her fault she thought of him all of the time. He must be used to it. “I know,” she said as simply as she could. His blue eyes narrowed dangerously. She froze, wondering where the anger had suddenly come from. He had to know she was trying.

  “Get up.”

  She pushed to her feet, ready to dodge more blows aimed at her head. He gripped her wrist and hauled her up when she didn’t move fast enough. His fingers stayed pressed against her pulse; it tapped like a woodpecker leaving secret messages.

  “What have you done to yourself?” He demanded. He was scowling at the wraps around her hands, now smeared with blood. She was half-tempted to read the patterns of the stains: an orchid, a running horse, fire. “Jane.”

  She shrugged. “I was practicing.”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. He was as unflinching and unforgiving as the sun. She may as well be naked.

  He cursed softly under his breath before leading her sharply between the pines. He took her to his cabin then stopped, realizing that he was still holding her wrist. He dropped her arm, but she still felt his touch like a brand. “Sit down.” He nodded to a tree stump polished into a stool. He opened a tin box filled with an assortment of liquids in glass bottles, sutures, and bandages. He pulled out a small blue bottle.

  “I have a healing salve in my pack,” she said softly. “You don’t have to waste yours.” At least she’d come prepared. It helped her feel less like the child he must think her, all wide eyes and stupid mistakes.

  He used the dagger from his belt to slice through the knots of her bandages, ignoring her comment. His expression was stern but his hands were surprisingly gentle, even with the faded scars crossed the knuckles. The material stuck to her broken skin and he pulled it clear, carefully but quickly. He wasn’t the type to save you necessary pain, but he wouldn’t compound it either. The blisters at the base of her fingers had burst, raw and messy.

  “You have to take care of your hands, damn it.” He dabbed at the cuts with a clear liquid that smelled antiseptic and burned like fire. “If infection sets in, you could lose them. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not,” she replied quietly, gathering the few threads of dignity still left to her. He was talking to her as if she was a child, the only thing she could do was not respond like one. “But I have to train, don’t I? You said it yourself. I’m no good.”

  He swore again, closing his eyes briefly.

  “I know you don’t want me here,” she added.

  “You don’t know anything.” When he opened his eyes again, she knew he was seeing Jane, not the little girl from the Enclave. She caught her breath when he stroked a strand of damp hair off her cheek. “Who broke you, beautiful?” He asked. “And why the hell do you keep handing everyone the weapon?”

  She didn’t know what to say. She felt as raw as her blisters. His fingers slipped further into her hair, titling her face toward him. “Don’t,” he added hoarsely. “Don’t let us keep breaking you.”

  He was standing so close his legs were between her knees. She could see the stubble on his jaw, the scar too close to his jugular. He glanced at her lips and she felt the recognition chase up her spine. She was sure he was going to kiss her, could already feel his mouth on hers when he stepped back.

  “Ease off the weapons training until your hands heal.”