Page 16 of Nemesis Mine
“Fuckingouch—”
“I thought you wanted me to come and get you,” Maximillian goaded. His chest rose and fell rapidly. He was more affected than he was letting on. A sheen of perspirationglistened on the collarbone exposed by his loose-fitting shirt, matched by the gleam of sweat on his forehead. He tossed his head back impatiently, swiping slickened hair out of his eyes.
Cyrus saw his chance. He flung the piece of burning wood into Maximillian’s face, the sear against his own flesh dwarfed by satisfaction as the champion yelped, reeling back. Cyrus leapt to his feet, making the most of the distraction to grab two daggers from his belt.
One in each hand, he advanced. Maximillian had already righted himself, an angry mark forming under his left eye where the burning wood had caught him. The skin was blistered pink and tender, and his eyes burned hot as the flame.
Cyrus didn’t give Maximillian the chance to attack again. He was in the champion’s space before Maximillian could dodge backwards, his hands a blur in the shadows. Their chests collided. Cyrus felt the heat of him, his startled breath at the proximity. One dagger embedded itself in Maximillian’s sword-bearing arm, prompting a roar of pain as the sword clattered to the ground. The other nicked at the delicate skin of his throat, a single bead of blood welling in its wake, and Cyrus’s eyes were drawn to it, transfixed—
For a moment too long, because Maximillian wasn’t nearly as deterred by the blade in his forearm as Cyrus had expected, or perhaps he was just angry enough to work through the pain. With his other hand, he knocked the dagger away from his throat and out of Cyrus’s grip. Then he wrenched the knife from his arm and used it to slashat Cyrus—his own weapon! That was unexpected—but Cyrus was too quick and the weapon too light in Maximillian’s hand, his blow made clumsy by inexperience. The blade barely glanced across his temple before Cyrus yanked his head back, a thin trickle of blood the champion’s only reward.
For a second they stood still, breathing heavy, only inches between them. Maximillian’s sword lay forgotten on the ground a pace behind him. One of Cyrus’s daggers had followed suit; the second was still clutched in Maximillian’s too-big hand; and the third was tucked into Cyrus’s belt. If the villagers were still watching in rapt silence on the other side of the square, then Cyrus was not aware of them. He knew only his own thumping heart and Maximillian, flushed and vicious and detestable in his skill, his relentlessness.
Distantly, Cyrus registered the urge to speak. To say something worthy of their confrontation, something cutting and witty and maddening. Something that would crawl beneath the skin of this champion, beloved of the people, and burrow into the darkest parts of him. Make him spend his last moments burning in the knowledge that Cyrus was his better in every way.
He opened his mouth, but he didn’t get the chance to summon a witticism, because Maximillian did something most unbecoming of a noble champion. He dropped the dagger and punched Cyrus, right in the face.
For a handful of sweet, blissful seconds there was nothing but shock. That wasn’t how champions operated. They let their opponents pick up weapons when they fell; theyshowed mercy when it was not due, so long as innocent lives were not at stake. They did not fight dirty.
Then the pain rushed in, white-hot and blooming, and Cyrus was forced to acknowledge that Maximillian did in fact fight very dirty indeed.
“What the fuck,” he croaked.
Maximillian drew his fist back again. Cyrus was—not ready, exactly, because he could barely see, and it felt as though his eyeball was swelling monstrously within its socket, like it would inevitably pop out and roll across the village square just to traumatise the peasants further. But as he swayed in place, one hot hand cupping his aching face to no relief, Cyrus sensed Maximillian readying for another blow.
No fucking way.
Using one of Maximillian’s own tricks against him, Cyrus threw his weight into his shoulder and drove it into the champion’s chest. Maximillian did not have the presence of mind to plant himself in the face of the shove. He reeled backwards again, only this time Cyrus went with him, momentum carrying him forward until he landed on top of the champion.
Someone groaned. Cyrus wasn’t sure who. He still wasn’t all that aware of much beyond the throbbing ache emanating from his eye socket. Dimly, he registered relief that his nose seemed to have avoided the brunt of Maximillian’s knuckles. He would have torched the entire village if Maximillian had ruined his face.
Precious seconds were spent orienting himself, clarity bringing new sensations in its wake. The hilt of the daggerstill secured in his belt, digging into Cyrus’s hip. The softness of the shirt Maximillian wore, silk, borrowing heat from his skin. Maximillian smelled of burning embers and fresh sweat and something underneath, a familiar spice. Cyrus was close enough to see the pulse beating rabbit-fast at his enemy’s throat. He could feel the hot panting breath against his neck. Each inhale brought him closer, until not a millimetre remained between their bodies.
Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath of his own, trying to ground himself. Maximillian was solid beneath him and Cyrus tried to focus on that, on the muscular feel of him. But it just made his head spin more. His senses were full of Maximillian and it was infuriating, it waswrong-wrong-wrong, Maximillian was his foe, he hated Maximillian, Maximillian needed to die—
A wheeze from below wrenched his thoughts from their frenzied spiral. Anticipating a blow, Cyrus reared his torso up just enough to plant his hands flat on the dusty earth on either side of the champion. They were still too close. But at least he could think more clearly like this.
And at least he wasn’t the only one who had been dazed. Maximillian’s stupidly long lashes fluttered as he blinked up at the dark sky beyond. He must have banged his head when they fell.Good, thought Cyrus viciously, and he resisted the urge to grab Maximillian by the hair and give his head another good bash against the ground only because his own body was begging for a moment’s respite.
“Bet you wish you hadn’t dropped that dagger now,” he panted.
“Don’t know about that,” Maximillian groaned. Cyrus felt the reverberation of his voice against his chest, disconcerting. “The look on your face was pretty good when I hit you.”
“You fight dirty. Some champion you are.”
Maximillian didn’t answer, just bared his teeth in a grin almost as mad as Cyrus’s own.
Cyrus was going to get up. He was, at any moment. But that grin threw his thoughts out of order again. He stared down at it, oddly shaken. That wasn’t how champions looked, feral and vicious, a mad dog ready to bite. It was the kind of expression he saw in his own mirror, not on the fair face of one of the greatest champions the land had ever seen.
Blood from his split temple dripped wetly onto Maximillian’s cheek. It splattered against his tanned skin. Maximillian did not move to wipe it away.
Because his arms were busy creeping up Cyrus’s sides, ready to lock him in place. He didn’t move to stop it. Didn’t think to stop it, unforgivably distracted by the smear of red against Maximillian’s cheek, and then it was too late.
Strong arms suddenly squeezed around Cyrus’s rib cage, driving a gasp from him. Maximillian rolled and Cyrus rolled with him, what little breath he had leaving his body as Maximillian pressed him back into the dirt. The champion was so close again, heavy, forcing the breath from his lungs. A thought careered across Cyrus’s mind, more stunned than afraid. This was it. This was how he was going to die, wrapped up in Maximillian.
But then Maximillian sat up, keeping his palms planted on Cyrus’s shoulders and his weight settled squarely atop Cyrus’s hips.
Smoke from the fallen tavern coiled lazily around his head, a murky halo. Maximillian’s mouth twisted with satisfaction. Even in the night’s shadows, Cyrus could make out that odious dimple.
