Page 10 of Nemesis Mine
Cyrus swallowed the acidic dislike rising in his throat and summoned his finest sneer. “You think I care for dirt? I clawed myself out of the cold dank earth to greet you.”
“Right,” said Maximillian. “Only, I noticed you lurking in the field earlier, and it looks like you’ve been hiding in the grass for quite some time...”
A traitorous rush of blood lurched to Cyrus’s face. Maximillian was lying, he had to be, he hadn’t noticed.
But that didn’t matter. Maximillian’s condescending smile grew, and Cyrus’s hatred with it.
It was the ideal opening for a peasant of unsound mind to start laughing, and Cyrus was not having it. He’d had enough of being laughed at, enough of champions looking down their noses at him, of their superiority and their false, fake piety. Enough of the way they stirred the people around them to blind, gullible worship. Most especially, he’d had enough ofthischampion and the grotesque, galling arrogance of him.
Maximillian would not get the better of him. Cyrus would not allow it.
He strode forward, relieved when his numb legs obeyed him, and advanced upon Maximillian until they were only a metre apart. The peasants shrank back under the eaves of the tavern.
“I do not hide,” Cyrus hissed, drawing himself up tohis full height and then risking a lurch up onto his tiptoes when he realised that Maximillian was slightly taller than him. The indignity of it. “I have been waiting foryouto finally show yourself, to stop preening under the attentions of those bound to kiss the ground at your feet.”
Maximillian didn’t move. His expression was guarded but Cyrus could still read the surprise in his eyes, and oh, that was gratifying. The champion had not expected confrontation like this.
When was the last time a wrongdoer had challenged Maximillian so directly?
Cyrus might have asked, if he could find a way to needle about it, but he was distracted by the way Maximillian’s eyes suddenly narrowed. They flickered over Cyrus’s face like he was trying to peel back the layers of skin and sinew to the bone beneath, as though he might memorise every hollow and curve.
Orlike he was trying to work out where he had seen this face before.
Cyrus’s nerves lurched, but his tongue rushed to provide a distraction. “Do you know why I have been waiting for you, champion?” Cool and silky, that was right; there was no room for any unease. “I wanted to see my foe before I challenged him. To see if any of the rumours of your mightiness hold substance. Whether you are worth my time.”
Cyrus looked Maximillian up and down, his mouth twisting as though he found something wanting. It worked, in so far as Maximillian’s eyes snapped back to his. His eyelashes were long, almost girlish. Cyrus entertained a brief fantasy of plucking out each hair one by one.
“Who are you?”
This was it: a critical moment. Maximillian might not recognise that he was one and the same with the young wrongdoer who’d failed to attack him that day by the river, but did he know of him now? Had he caught wind of the reputation Cyrus had built in the years that had followed?
Cyrus didn’t look away. “I am Cyrus.”
And—there. A reaction, infinitesimal. Cyrus would have missed the way his eyes widened had their gazes not been so locked, and there was that gratification again, only this time he felt it clamour hotly in the pit of his belly. Maximillian knew him, all right.
“You’ve heard of me,” he stated.
Maximillian inclined his head. “The Eborre quake. And you attacked Lailar last week.”
Damn it. He must have seen the fucking drawing inAthaca News. Cyrus exhaled, forcing the thought aside. Better to focus on the fact that Maximillian recognised his work despite the mistakes in the report. And he wasn’t laughing. No, there was a shrewdness in his gaze, almost curiosity, like Cyrus was something new and unpredictable.
Cyrus had almost forgotten the presence of the villagers lurking by the tavern. Their heads swivelled back and forth, expressions oscillating between reverence and fearful confusion. He was abruptly reminded of their presence when one of them ventured, “I thought Lailar was attacked by someone called Cit—”
No time to think. Cyrus wrenched his eyes away from Maximillian, his head turning to fix the villager with a look that had the rest of his sentence withering in his putrid little mouth. In a single fluid movement Cyrus was in front of the peasant, his hand stretching out to grasp the man by his flabby throat. The rest shrieked and dived for cover, leaving his victim quailing before him, whimpering out an apology as Cyrus’s fingers closed in on his neck—
Maximillian was suddenly there, in between him and the peasant, knocking his arm aside. Cyrus snarled and surged forward, intent on shoving Maximillian away and getting to the peasant now cowering behind him.
Maximillian staggered slightly but then planted his feet, cementing himself in place. Cyrus’s plans for posturing were left behind in the dust as he launched himself to attack again, but as his hand clawed out to land the first punch, it was caught in a firm grip. Maximillian didn’t go for the wrist, didn’t try to grab hold of his fist—instead he made the most of Cyrus’s outstretched hand to entwine their fingers and then squeeze, firmly, holding Cyrus’s hand captive within his own.
Cyrus froze. Maximillian’s grip did not relent.
“No,” said Maximillian.
Cyrus stared at him, breathing hard. Their hands were still locked together, palm to palm. It was too close, too intimate. Maximillian’s skin was hot. He could feel every jut of delicate bone. His skin crawled at the proximity. He wanted to yank his hand away but he couldn’t. His own bones ached, caught in a vice, and yet still he did not look away.
It was silent, strangely so, as though everybody in their vicinity had forgotten how to use their lungs. Then the cowering peasant broke the spell, letting out a squeak ofrelief. He began to edge sideways, trying to keep Maximillian in between himself and Cyrus.
Cyrus exhaled as discreetly as possible. He tried to pull his arm back, testing Maximillian’s grip. The champion loosened his hold, his gaze dropping to sweep Cyrus’s face, trying to read him for any sign of deception. Cyrus deliberately kept his face expressionless as he lowered his arm to his side, his movements slow and measured. He wiped his hand on his cloak where Maximillian had touched him, allowing a hint of a lip curl to break through his impassive mask.
