Page 28 of A Touch of Poison
Maybe this morning, I wanted to. It felt like I had a friend here in this strange city.
Maybe that was what made me cocky. “Name two adjacent colours on the target and a number between one and twelve.”
His eyes narrowed and he eyed me with suspicion. “Blue and black. Eleven.”
I nocked. I aimed. I fired.
“Hmm. I suppose every shot can’t be perfect.”
It wasn’t in the bullseye, no.
But I wasn’t aiming for the bullseye.
“Ah, Bastian,” I sighed, shaking my head. “What colours am I on the line between?”
A frown flickered between his eyebrows, and he glanced back at the target. “Blue and black.”
I widened my eyes. “Really? Huh. Weird. And if the target were a clock face, where would—?”
“Eleven.” He exhaled a disbelieving laugh. He looked at me a long while, gaze flicking over my face and down as if he’d never seen me before this moment.
It made my skin burn. That foolish fluttering renewed, fed by his undisguised admiration. I cleared my throat and shrugged like I wasn’t so affected. “I told you I was a good shot. It carries over from pistols to archery—that’s all.”
But it had felt good to prove him wrong, to surprise him where he’d underestimated me. And the look he gave me felt more than good. I couldn’t contain my grin.
A slow and dangerous smile inched over his lips, and I found myself preoccupied by his scar. “Fine, so the Wicked Lady can shoot. But what about when she’s distracted?”
“You don’t think it’s distracting to worry about being executed if you’re caught? I’ve been living with distraction for years.”
“Very well.” His voice lilted, low and teasing. “If you think you’re so seasoned, go ahead.”
“Where this time?” I drew another arrow and readied it.
“Just the bullseye will do.”
“Hmph. Too easy.”
“Stop stalling, Katherine.”
Fuck. Talk about distraction. The way he said my name in full like that.
I drew a long, slow breath and pulled back the string. As easy as that, I shook him off. He would have to try harder to throw my aim.
I lined up my arrow and exhaled.
Just as I was about to release, a finger traced my temple and down my cheek. I gasped at the resonance humming through my body and the bowstring slipped from my fingers. I didn’t even see where my arrow went.
“You bastard!” I whirled on him.
And found we stood toe-to-toe.
My breaths heaved as I glared. He’d use the first touch of the day against me.
But a slow and foolish smile spread across his face. “Say that again.”
“You bastard,” I said as he watched my mouth form the words. My skin grew too tight under that intimate attention, my annoyance merging with an altogether different heat.
“I normally hate that name,” he murmured into the quiet of the practice yard, and I was suddenly all too aware that we were the only ones here. “But when you say it… it isn’t the same at all.”
