Stealing Infinity, page 17
I lower my weapon, needing a moment to process his words. “It’s still hard to believe that it’s real.” I try to envision the sort of logistics involved, but the best I can come up with are random scenes from various time travel movies that rely on phone booths and sports cars to get the job done. And though I still have no idea how Arthur has managed it, I’m sure he’s invented a far more elegant mode of transportation. “I mean, you talk about Tripping like it’s normal, but I’m having a really hard time wrapping my head around the concept.”
“I’m not sure you ever fully get used to it,” Braxton says. “And yet, five years at Gray Wolf have taught me that the only real limits are those of imagination.”
“And Arthur’s imagination, along with his bank account, are limitless?”
“So it appears.” Braxton grins in a way that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Then again, grinning doesn’t come easily to someone like him.
“And when does Arthur plan on making the big reveal? I mean, just how long am I supposed to pretend I don’t know what the constructs are for?”
“For most people, they’re either a few months in before they flat-out ask, or a formal meeting is arranged where someone informs them what they’ve really been brought here to do.”
“Okay, so that’s most people. What about me?”
Braxton shrugs. “Arthur’s got you on an accelerated schedule, so you can probably expect a meeting any day now. Thing is,” he adds, “you won’t be traveling anywhere until you master some skills.”
I watch as he grabs a sword from a glass container by the door. I guess I was so entranced by the view, I failed to notice anything else.
I glance between the sword and him. “This hardly seems like a fair fight,” I say, nodding toward the length of his blade, which is so much longer than mine.
“It’s not meant to be,” he says. “Mainly because it’s a lesson.” His gaze squares on mine in a way that sends a shiver racing straight down my spine.
“So, you’re actually serious about teaching me? Here? In this all-glass room?” Another quick look around leaves me wondering if this might actually be a terrible idea.
I mean, just how thick are those panes, anyway?
Braxton positions himself before me, his stormy blue gaze locking onto mine as the sharpened edge of his weapon glints under the moonlit sky.
“Let’s go,” he says.
And before I have a chance to react, Braxton’s blade is swinging straight for my neck.
58
In a moment of terror, I take a giant, clumsy leap back.
The sound of my dagger as it slips from my fingers and clatters hard against the glass floor is in direct competition with the frantic thud of my wildly beating heart.
I stand before Braxton, unarmed and on the verge of hyperventilating.
To his credit, he doesn’t take advantage and he doesn’t laugh. He merely lowers his sword to his side, nods toward my weapon, and lets me regroup and get a grip on myself.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I probably should’ve opened with that, but I guess I assumed it went without saying.”
“Unlike you, I can’t afford to assume anything in this place.” I force the words past a tongue that’s gone dry, as my breath slowly steadies and my stomach gradually finds its way out of my throat and back to where it belongs.
“You’d be wise not to,” Braxton says. “So, allow me to state now and for the record, that I would never, ever harm you in any way, whatsoever. Does that cover it—are we good?”
When his warm gaze lands on mine, I’m left even more shaken than I was when I thought for sure he was aiming to take off my head. I mean, how am I supposed to concentrate on anything when he looks at me like that—so heated, so intimate, so—
“But when you’re out there Tripping,” Braxton says, clearly unaware of the effect he’s having on me, which definitely comes as a relief, “and a weapon is drawn, you can be sure your opponent won’t grant you the courtesy of going easy on you.”
I nod. Swallow. Go to great lengths to avoid meeting his gaze.
“If you’re ready, we’ll start by shadowing. Just follow my lead.”
I watch as he raises his blade, then I raise mine as well.
When he lowers his, I do the same.
“Good,” he says. “Now, when I step back, you move toward me, and vice versa.”
Though I try to mimic his postures with the same grace and ease, he moves with such natural elegance, I feel awkward and clumsy in comparison.
“Am I about to get an F in mime class?” I groan.
“Think of it like a dance,” Braxton says, and that’s when I realize he’s moving in time with the music.
“Oh, I get it,” I say. Aiming my blade toward his shoulder, I remember how Arthur told him to mark me down for lessons in dance, comportment, and just about everything else. “This is a dance/swordcraft two-for-one.” I laugh, but again, Braxton is fully devoted to staying in serious mode.
“Focus,” he whispers. “Stay in the moment, quiet your mind, and ignore all distractions. Then combine that focus with your intuition to see if you can anticipate my next move.”
He lowers his blade and jabs it toward my ribs. And, since I didn’t see it coming, I arc my body away, falter slightly on my heels, but then quickly recover and counter with the same.
Braxton repeats the move, giving me a chance to do better. Only this time, the top edge of my blade veers a little too close, and after skimming over his torso, it catches on a button and shreds a hole in his shirt.
“Omigod,” I gasp. “I didn’t mean—”
The button pings and bounces across the glass floor, but my eyes are locked on the place where the fabric is torn and Braxton’s smooth, taut abs are exposed.
A ripple of heat courses through me, and I guess my gaze must linger just a little too long, because Braxton clears his throat, and says, “Let it go.”
I can’t tell if he’s referring to the loss of the button, or the way he caught me open-mouthed gaping at his rock-hard torso. Either way, I force myself to look away.
“Stay with me,” he coaches. “Be right here, right now. Just you and me. There’s nobody else.” His voice is so low and deep, the words hook right into me.
Just you and me… Nobody else repeats in my head like a song.
Braxton walks a slow circle around me, reducing my world to nothing more than the two of us in this all-glass room.
“Where are you,” he says, voice barely audible over the music.
“Here,” I reply, my breath hitching in my chest when my eyes latch onto his. A classical melody plays in the background, but all I can hear is the burning silence that sizzles between us.
I want to look away, but I can’t.
My eyes plead with his to look away, but he won’t.
And with the winter’s night sky glimmering overhead and the turbulent sea crashing far below, we return to this strange and delicate ritual of advance and retreat until I’ve come to know the strength of his lunge as well as he’s learned the force of my parry.
When the song changes, Braxton expertly steers me to the far side of the room. His moves grow so increasingly complex, it requires all my focus just to keep up. Which reminds me of the guided meditation app Mason once made me listen to, swearing it would help still my mind and “center myself.” When all it really did was allow for a front-row seat to the parade of anxious thoughts that incessantly storm through my brain.
Apparently, that slim thread of memory is all it takes to drive me off course, because the next thing I know, my dagger clangs to the ground, I’m pinned against the glass wall, and the cold, sharp tip of Braxton’s blade is pressing to the hollow of my throat.
59
“Rule number one,” Braxton says. “Never lose track of your blade.”
“And number two?” I ask, breath quickening as my gaze runs up the length of his forearm, landing on the faint outline of a circle tattoo near the crook that leaves me wanting to see more, to know more.
What kind of symbol could a boy like him deem so important he permanently inked it onto his body?
“If you’re going to pull a weapon, not only do you have to be willing to use it, but you have to be willing to live with the consequences,” he says, breaking me out of my reverie as my gaze returns to his.
“And are you willing to live with these consequences?” I ask, my voice thin and tight.
“Absolutely not.” He lifts the tip from my skin. “Though, like I said before, I’m an anomaly. When you’re out there Tripping, you’re more likely to encounter someone who’s far more mercenary. And what will you do then, when you were this easily disarmed?” He watches me with a thoughtful expression, as though he truly is curious to hear how I plan to con my way out of that kind of mess.
“Beg for my life?” I flutter my lashes and force what’s meant to be a flirty smile. But it’s been a while since I was that girl, and I’m so out of practice, it’s an immediate fail.
Braxton cocks his head and studies me with great interest. “Do you really expect that to work—out there, in the real world where the stakes are literally life and death?”
I swallow, all too aware that he’s yet to abandon his blade. “Not likely,” I say. “But I’m hoping you might take mercy on a poor, inexperienced Green. After all, it’s only my second day here. Also, might I remind you—you did give me your word.”
Braxton’s face softens. But his hold on his sword remains. “Your mind wandered,” he says.
Feebly, I nod. There’s no point denying it.
“I clocked it the second it happened. I literally watched your eyes glaze and turn inward. You can’t afford that kind of mistake.”
“I know, I—”
“You were time traveling,” he says.
My gaze jerks back to his. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“The reason it’s so hard to stay present is because the mind prefers to dwell either in thoughts of the future or memories of the past. Where were you?”
“Back home,” I admit.
Braxton lowers the blade, returns it to its sheath. And though I never for a second believed that he’d use it, my shoulders go slack with relief.
“I know I’m supposed to leave the past behind, but it’s one of those things that’s easier in theory than practice. Also—” I pause, trying to decide whether to finish the thought, then plunging ahead, I hear myself say, “It’s just—everything about this place feels like a game.” I’m not even sure what I mean by the statement, but somehow, I can’t shake the feeling of being a pawn on a chessboard of Arthur’s design.
Also, I’m not entirely clear on Braxton’s intentions. If this were merely about the lesson, then why did he insist on doing it here, in this magical space, instead of an ordinary room?
“I assure you this is no game,” Braxton says, but I’m no longer sure if he’s talking about life here at Gray Wolf, or the two of us suspended together, floating in space.
He stands before me, so close I can clearly make out the place where the streak of his nose hits a bit of a bend. It’s the only discernable flaw on his otherwise perfect face, and I feel such an overwhelming surge of fondness for it, I lift a tentative hand and follow the slant with the tip of my finger.
When he closes his eyes and sighs in response, I try to envision this dashing, elegant boy ditching class, brawling in school hallways, and worse. It’s impossible to imagine.
But when his lids flutter open, and his gaze latches onto mine, I catch a shadow of something dark and unknowable that hints at those troubled times.
And it’s that mystery I lean into, determined to uncover what could’ve possibly happened to him.
Who was he fighting?
What was he rebelling against?
And why is he always so serious…so…guilt ridden?
What exactly has he done on Arthur’s behalf?
Over the last two days, this boy has become my closest companion, and while he seems to know practically everything about me, I know virtually nothing about him.
“Don’t ever mistake this for a game,” he says, breaking into my thoughts, and again leaving it unclear just exactly what he means.
I’m about to ask him to explain, about to ask him so many things, when he tips his index finger to the underside of my chin and the questions instantly fade.
There’s a hunger that burns deep in his eyes, and I know without question it’s the same hunger he’s seeing in mine.
A sudden mad flutter stirs in my chest, as a low-key quiver trembles deep in my belly. And I know in this moment that despite the promise I made to myself to steer clear of moments like this, kissing Braxton was never not going to happen.
Still, I need to at least try to protest. Let him know that I’m fully aware of just how irrational this is. I mean, he may claim to know all about me, but the fact is, we just met. Clearly this attraction we feel is purely physical, and not based on anything substantial or real.
“Tasha,” Braxton says, his voice a gruff, throaty whisper. “You okay?”
A jumble of thoughts swirls through my brain, but the only one I can manage to voice is, “Um, here’s the thing…”
I swallow hard. Braxton squints.
“Just to be clear—I don’t even know if I actually like you.” With knees gone wobbly, I pitch onto my toes.
Braxton just nods. “Totally understandable.”
“I mean, I’m much more inclined to hate you.” My lips part ever so slightly as I check for his reaction, but Braxton doesn’t look the least bit offended.
“It’s not like I blame you,” he says, the lilt of his accent fading on a sigh.
“And yet…” The tip of my tongue slides across the roof of my mouth as Braxton stands silently before me, breath held in his cheeks, eyes blazing with heat. “While I’m pretty sure this is a terrible, regrettable, lamentable idea…one of the worst I’ve probably ever had…”
His head moves toward mine as the tip of his finger trails up and over my chin, where it lingers at the base of my bottom lip. “Go on,” he says.
“I, uh…” I swallow hard and force myself to continue. “Well, I can’t help but think that maybe we should just…get it over with, you know? I mean, obviously, we’re both curious, so why not finish what we started and kiss each other already so we can put it behind us.”
My heart crashes hard in my chest, and I’m pretty sure my toes have gone numb.
“Is that what you want?” Braxton’s finger begins a slow slide across the length of my lip. “To get it over with?”
I watch as his own lips curve into a grin, and it’s such a rare sight, part of me wishes there was more time to admire it.
But the other part, the more insistent part, is already thinking of a much better use for that mouth.
“Yes,” I say, wondering if he can hear the frantic rush of my pulse, see the way my skin flushes and glows. “But only so we can get it out of our systems and move on as just friends. A sort of…one and done, so that—”
Thankfully, Braxton doesn’t let me finish. Because all I know is that the feel of his mouth crashing onto mine makes for the most glorious kiss I’ve ever known in my life.
60
It’s a perfect fit, this kiss.
It’s a movie kiss.
A halfway through a romance novel and I’ve been waiting for this moment kiss.
The kind of kiss that obliterates the pitiable memory of every kiss that ever came before.
As Braxton’s lips move over mine, tasting, savoring, lingering, stealing my breath, my ability to think, I’m left dizzy, light on my feet, and hungry for more.
So much more.
But just as my fingers are sliding into his tousle of hair, Braxton is already pulling away.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft and breathless, his forehead pressed against mine. “Are you ready to put that behind us and just be friends?” His voice is light and teasing, but his gaze sears right through me, leaving no doubt that while he wants this to continue as much as I do, he’ll agree to walk away if I insist on following through with our deal.
But thankfully, I’m well past that nonsense. Under a sky lit with stars and a wink of moon hanging high overhead, I tip onto my toes, thread my arms around Braxton’s neck, and find his lips again.
This time, the kiss is softer, more tender. Unlike the mad rush of before, when we thought we had to cram it all in after agreeing to never do it again, we move slower, taking our time to get to know this side of each other.
Braxton pulls me closer. So close I’m burrowed deep inside his arms, my body straining against his, as his lips brush against mine. Playing, tasting, teasing, he kisses me so fully and deeply and well, I can feel the echo of every sweep of his tongue reverberating all the way down to my toes.
My tongue rolls with his, as his hands make a slow, torturous journey along the hollow of my waist to the undercurve of my breasts. There’s a question in his fingers as they trace along the bend of my ribs, and I can hear the words as clearly as though he spoke them out loud: is this going too far?
Oh, it’s definitely going too far.
Not to mention this is all moving way too fast.
But try telling that to my body when it’s screaming for more, more, more.
More of the sweet heat of his kiss—the delicious shiver of his touch on my skin. This boy has sparked a craving in me—a deep-rooted longing for the sort of unspeakable, blushing things I’ve only read about in books or seen in movies. The sort of glorious, body-shattering thrills taken by other boys before him but never once offered to me.
“Tasha,” he groans, and I open my eyes to find his beautiful face swimming before me. His eyes shadowed with secrets, lips shaped by desire. That bit of bend in his nose the only tangible truth he willingly offers.
