Chapter 170 - 168: Lost Captain.

Chapter 170: Chapter 168: Lost Captain.

He’s not sure why, but Khobi can tell from the unhappy way the two blades grate against one another and whine something high and awful, that his guard has slipped.

So he does what any swordsman running on adrenaline fumes would do.

​He takes his chance, and gets a clean cut in. And when he feels resistance against the tip of his blade, he feels, with a flash of triumph, that it’s deep.

​The elation is short lived.

​It felt deeper than he meant to cut.

​Deeper than he should’ve been able to cut, with how high and strong Loac’s guard runs and how sharp his reflexes should be.

​It makes him hesitate.

And under normal circumstances, that would’ve been a fatal error. It would’ve been a clean opening for his opponent.

By all means, he should be on his back in an instant, and his sword should be lost to the wind.

​But he finds himself still standing, and his sword, dripping red from the edge, is still in his hand.

​Loac’s sword, however, falls limply to the ground as he doubles over, clutching at his chest.

No more than a couple of paces from him, Khobi can see that his teeth are gritted tight, and through what’s left of his cut up shirt, he catches a glimpse of a line of bandages.

Some of the blood staining them is old, but more of it is new, and spreading.

"Oh shit," Khobi curses, as Loac pulls a hand away from his chest and finds it damp with fresh blood. "You’re bleeding."

​Loac looks up just enough to send him a withering glare.

​"No shit."

​"Fuck." Despite the barb, the fire in Khobi’s chest dies in an instant and ignites in its place a flash of panic.

He hadn’t meant to do that. Not really. He didn’t like the guy but he didn’t want to kill him.

His gaze follows a droplet of blood down the sharp edge of his blade.

Not a training blade. A proper weapon.

​Fuck.

​"I’m fine."

​"Like fuck you are," Khobi snaps back, tossing the blade to the dirt and tearing at his own shirt for something to staunch the blood.

The fabric tears easily, its seams loosened by a thousand narrow misses. "Here, take this."

​Loac sends him another glare, but takes the ragged remnants of a shirt before peeling back the bloody layers to assess the damage.

He can’t be that hurt because he still takes the opportunity to sweep a long and particularly lecherous glance up and across Khobi’s naked torso.

He doesn’t even try to hide it, the asshole.

​Khobi’s largely gotten used to it by now, but for some reason it feels different than it usually does.

Not nearly as apathetic. Not nearly as empty.

​This time, there’s heat, left burning from their fight, and it’s not nearly as unpleasant.

​"Really?" Khobi grinds out, all the same, fighting the sudden urge to fold his arms.

​Loac shrugs, and Khobi revises his assessment.

​He does want to kill him.

​It’s a good thing that that is the moment that Binny decides is as good a time as any to intervene.

​...

​This is not Drogger’s night.

​In hindsight, he should’ve known. No good ever comes from parties.

Never has, never will. It’s something he’s stood by for many years, yet Gurdet always demands his presence.

And Drogger has been a Captain long enough to know that anything his king has his hand in is something he should avoid wherever possible.

​Unfortunately for him, and everyone else, his king also has a knack for knowing exactly what men dread the most, and an exceedingly bad habit of making them do it anyway.

​So Drogger attends the parties. He makes nice with all the people he’s supposed to, even though he knows they despise him but pretend not to.

He drinks appropriately. He watches his men chase the skirts of women who don’t want them. He dances only when he absolutely must.

​Tonight was meant to be no different.

​Except that it was worse.

​For some reason, men who he was meant to make nice with didn’t pretend as well as they usually do.

Ynoro had fallen in and out of love more times than he could count. He’d run out of excuses not to dance.

​Not to mention, the glaringly obvious.

​Rogard.

​The cool night air has done little to clear his head.

​What was he thinking?

​What was he thinking?

​And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking.

​I want to kiss you.

​Second Captain of Crade, he was. A military man. A tactician.

A reputation a lifetime in the making. And yet, with just a few simple words, every coherent thought but one had completely, utterly escaped him.

​Yes.

​He thought a walk would clear his head.

​It hasn’t.

​All it’s done is force him to replay that part of the night over and over.

And as if he doesn’t find his thoughts wandering to Rogard Spidra as it is, he now has the memory of what he looks like with a blush running high on his cheeks to torment himself with.

​And the way his golden eyes had looked in the moonlight.

The way his skin felt underneath his fingertips.

​The way his lips felt against his.

Even now, hours later, he can still feel the ghost of their kiss, and if he’s foolish enough to close his eyes he’s right back there in that moment, fingers wrapped tight in blonde hair and Rogard’s hands as urgent on his face as his lips.

​Dammit.

​Every time he tears himself away from the memory, his face is burning and there’s a steadily tightening knot in his gut that he wishes he could mistake for anything other than what it truly was.

If the way that Rogard’s tongue had pressed into his lips had been anything to go by, he’d wanted more than just a simple kiss, and it had taken every ounce of Drogger’s considerable self control to hold himself in check.