Page 87 of Interion

“That day at the academy...” I began, but he cut me off. As if he knew exactly what I was thinking. Maybe he did—after all, the bond was there regardless.

“I was trying to push you away.” His eyes seemed to hold an apology and a certain degree of shame.

“I understand,” I murmured, pulling my hand from his.

I stood up and collected the plates. He watched me intently, and the silence began to weigh on us both. I cleared my throat and answered his earlier question:

“The kiss was good.”

I started organizing the kitchen to give my hands something to do. I felt bad about the academy situation—I'd been a wreck for weeks after that argument, and now he was just saying it wasn't true. Still, I swallowed my wounded pride, wondering where all these unspoken words I kept locked inside would go.

Zion got up and came to help me.

“Just 'good'? What else?” He flashed that crooked smile—that damned crooked smile.

“I was drunk and don't remember it that well, but it was good—a first kiss that tasted like vodka,” I insisted, sticking to my answer.

The truth was, the kiss was good, but a simple smile from Zion did more to my body than Hiro and Aish's kisses combined.

“No fireworks? Racing heart, or even butterflies in your stomach?” He tried to study my face, and I avoided his gaze. It was irrational, but I was afraid he'd see the truth in my eyes.

“None of that—just some lunatic pounding on the bond and stealing my attention.”

“I'm heartbroken about ruining your first kiss,” he mocked, drying the plates as I set them in the dish rack.

“At 287 years old, shouldn't you know how to control your jealousy by now?”

“It's not jealousy.”

“Then what should we call it? Territorialism? Inability to think straight? Lustful fury? Emotional instability?” I ticked them off on my fingers, mocking him.

“Call it whatever you want, but it's not jealousy.”

I let myself laugh and felt the blood flowing faster. Zion seemed to notice the metallic smell in the air but played it off.

“It is jealousy,” I retorted.

“And what adjectives should we use to describe your training with Adele?” he asked with a smug smile. “Or do you prefer to call that jealousy too?”

I stared at him, jaw dropped, then raised an eyebrow and tried to hold back my laughter as I replied:

“Touché!” I watched his smile grow even wider at my admission, then spoke again. “At least I don't lie to myself—I own my basic partner instincts,” I shot back while wiping down the table. I hadn't even planned to clean the house, but I didn't want to go upstairs to the bedroom and be alone. His company was like a juicy steak to a starving lion, and I'd keep cleaning just to have an excuse to stay by his side. “I could hardly believe it when you sent us to the ring. I thought you were bluffing.”

“I told you I never bluff. But that specific day, I was confirming my suspicions.”

“What suspicions?” I asked, afraid to know what his cruel mind was scheming.

Then he turned to me, and I knew from the look in his eyes that it certainly wouldn't be anything good.

“In most training sessions, you don't even try. You don't fight badly because you lack skill—it's because you don't want to fight.”

Zion crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter. Remember that truce we had? It was probably being shattered at that very moment, and now there was no point hiding the obvious. I considered it a miracle he hadn't given me this lecture sooner.

“Why should I try? If I score well on the practical exam, the board will send me outside the walls as a military medic. I don't want that. I can just be mediocre at combat and excellent at healing. I looked at Ambrose and Lorenzo's grades when they joined the hospital—they were excellent with their gift and hopeless with a sword.”

Zion took a deep breath, clearly trying to stay calm. Instinctively, I braced myself for the lecture. It was only a matter of time before he started in on me.

“Lorenzo and Ambrose, unlike you, are Interians who will never be attacked on the street because of xenophobia. Forget about the hospital and academy—focus on what's best for you,” he began. “You can be good and pretend you're not during the military tests. Unlike the old trainer, I won't report your progress to the board, but in the meantime, learn everything you can. Last night...” He paused, probably searching for the right words. “Last night you almost died. If you'd been properly prepared, you could have fought them off.”