Page 38 of Nemesis Mine
Maximillian groaned, setting his hands on either side of Cyrus and starting to lever himself up. “You’re the one who—ugh.” He stopped, scrunching up his eyes, and left his weight resting on one arm whilst his free hand pressed to his forehead. “You’re the one with a head like a boulder.”
He was still sprawled atop Cyrus. Their legs were tangled, one of Maximillian’s knees caught between Cyrus’s thighs. Cyrus was suddenly very aware of it, and aware of the fact that he had spent entirely too much time recently pressed up close to Maximillian. Why did this keep happening?
Maximillian shifted, massaging his forehead. His knee moved too, just slightly. Cyrus swallowed a squeak and turned it into a cough.
“Don’t know why you bothered learning to fight in the first place,” Cyrus mumbled once he could trust his voice. “Could just sit on people and crush them.” He raised his hands to push at Maximillian, then thought better of it. The thought of planting his palms against the champion’s muscled chest sent his brain spinning off into an irrational panic from whence there was no return. He made do with flapping his hands weakly in Maximillian’s face instead. “Come on, get off—”
But Maximillian, damn him, seemed to be in a playful mood. He stopped rubbing his forehead and looked down at Cyrus. Then he smirked. It was all the warning Cyrus got before Maximillian had grabbed his wrists, one in each hand, and pinned them to the ground on either side of his head.
This time the squeak did escape. Cyrus stared up at Maximillian, eyes wide. He could feel the flush rising relentlessly up his neck and into his face. His heart was beating very fast. The movement brought Maximillian closer again, his face inches from Cyrus. A fleeting thought darted through Cyrus’s mind, quick as a wisp of smoke, half honest and half annoyed.Beautiful.Maximillian was beautiful, there was no denying it, but the fact that Cyrus had to admit it was just another thing he resented about him.
“You pinned me last time,” Maximillian said. He was putting on an innocent voice, but he was still smirking. “Maybe it’s my turn.”
Cyrus couldn’t think of anything to say. Any coherent thought seemed to have fled. His enemy filled his senses, driving out all else. Coppery hair falling forward, almost touching his own forehead. Warm fingers curled around his wrists. Solid weight on his legs, his chest. Patchouli and fresh sweat.
Hisenemy. A champion. Too close, he was too close, they should not be touching like this.
Lack of rational thought left only irrational urges behind. Instinctively, Cyrus summoned all the strength he could lay claim to and bucked his torso up, heaving against Maximillian’s weight.
He probably wouldn’t have been able to throw Maximillian off, not from that angle, but Maximillian acquiesced. He let himself be dislodged, rolling off Cyrus to kneel in the grass beside him before he picked himself up. He was laughing, but he looked a little flushed too.
Cyrus stayed where he was, staring up at the star-speckled night sky and breathing hard. His lungs were grateful for the chance to expand again without Maximillian attempting to pulverise them, but the rest of his body felt strangely bereft.
“Didn’t break you, did I?”
Maximillian had turned back towards him. He looked down at Cyrus, head tilted to one side. He sounded amused, but the smile at the corner of his mouth looked genuine.
Cyrus blew out a breath and pushed himself up onto his elbows with a groan. At least his voice had returned to him. “As if you could.”
Maximillian’s smile widened. He held out his hand wordlessly.
Cyrus eyed it for a couple of seconds. He could push Maximillian’s hand aside with a sneer, snap at him for thinking Cyrus would reciprocate this playfulness when he was only here on business. The option was there.
But if Maximillian could enjoy their scheming, why couldn’t Cyrus? And why should he discourage Athaca’s golden boy from lowering himself to Cyrus’s level? It was what the people would hate most, after all.
He took the outstretched hand. Maximillian’s palm was hot against his own. Strong fingers wrapped around Cyrus’s, securing them together, then hauled him to his feet.
“Come on. Let’s get this fight sorted.”
Maximillian dropped Cyrus’s hand quickly. But the heat of his touch lingered, long into the night.
Chapter Ten
Cyrus appreciated that Maximillian had passed on Balthazar’s warning about the value of the items stored in the winery. He kept it in mind and made a special effort to grab at the most expensive-looking bottles in the cellar as he and Maximillian crashed through to the tune of shattering glass, glugging liquid, and panicked screams.
They had already made a mess of the upstairs workshop, leaving people shrieking and diving for cover as wrongdoer and champion ricocheted from table to table. Then Maximillian led Cyrus down into the enormous storeroom, where they had a grand time continuing their fight with bottles tumbling from every surface around them.
“Be gone, villain!” Maximillian roared from across the room. “You are not welcome here!”
He swiped at Cyrus with his sword. The blade accidentally-on-purpose bit into a barrel, giving way to a sudden spurt of ruby liquid that arced into the space between them. Cyrus whooped and cavorted in the spray. Hedidn’t even care that it was staining his shirt. This was the kind of wrongdoing he lived for.
And he wasn’t the only one enjoying himself. Spinning around to face Maximillian again, Cyrus caught sight of a hastily suppressed grin before the champion bore down on him. Then the clash of blades rang out over the clattering bottles, sweetly underscored by the wails of the winemaker.
The wine helped provide an escape route this time; Cyrus took a leaf out of Maximillian’s book and targeted the barrels, attacking them until bright liquid was spurting all over the place. He dragged a couple off their stands for good measure, kicking them both towards the meagre gathering of people who’d dared come close enough to watch the mayhem unfold.
The exit was clear. Nobody was going to stop him. Cyrus spared one last glance for Maximillian. He was drenched in red like he’d slaughtered the lot of them, wine dripping from his hair and running down his collar, spattered against his cream shirt and trickling down his sword. And he was grinning again, unable to stop himself. He was lucky everyone else in the vicinity was too traumatised to notice.
“See ya,” said Cyrus. Then he was gone, leaping over the winemaker’s sobbing form, still snickering to himself by the time he reached Soulripper.
