Cauldron boil him, he knew the question held more meanings than he cared to unravel.
From the glimmer in her eyes, he knew she got it. But she squared her shoulders. “All right. I owe you one hour of training.”
“You sure as hell do.” Cassian mastered his breathing, shoving aside that roaring desire. He strode to the center of the ring, but opted to keep his shirt off. Because of the warm day. Because his skin was now burning hot.
He gestured to the space beside him, and flashed her his broadest grin. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Archeron.”
A bargain—with Cassian. Nesta didn’t know how she’d allowed herself to agree to it, to let that magic pass between them and mark her, but …
Everyone hates you.
Maybe it was that fact alone that had her agreeing to this insanity. She had no idea what favor she’d call in from him, but … Fine. This training ring, with its high walls, the sky her only witness—here, she supposed, she could let him do his worst.
No matter that Cassian without a shirt bordered on obscene, even with the collection of scars peppering his golden-brown skin. The one on his left pectoral was especially horrific—and one she knew he hadn’t received during the war with Hybern. She didn’t want to know what had been bad enough to leave a scar on his quick-healing body. Especially when all evidence of the devastating wound he’d gotten during the war was gone. Only rippling muscle and skin remained.
Honestly, there were so many muscles she couldn’t count them all. Muscles on his damned ribs. She didn’t know people could have them there. And those ones that flowed into his pants, like a golden arrow pointing to exactly what she wanted—
Nesta shook the thought out of her head as she approached Cassian in the center of the ring. He grinned like a fiend.
She stopped a good three feet away, the morning sun warm on her hair, her cheeks. It was the closest she’d stood to him without arguing or bickering in … a long time.
Cassian rolled his powerful shoulders, his sprawling tattoo shifting with the movement. “All right. We start with the basics.”
“Swords?” She indicated the rack of weapons against the wall to the left of the archway into the stairwell.
His mouth curled upward. “You won’t be getting to swords yet. You need to learn to control your movements, your balance. You’ll develop basic strength and awareness of your body before you’ll pick up even a wooden practice sword.” He glanced at her laced-up boots. “Feet and breathing.”
She blinked. “Feet?”
“Your toes especially.”
He was completely serious. “What about my toes?”
“Learning how to grip the ground, to balance your weight—it builds a foundation for everything else.”
“I’m going to be exercising my toes.”
He chuckled. “You thought it’d be swords and arrows on day one?”
Arrogant ass. “You threw my sister into the training ring and did just that.”
“Your sister already possessed a skill set you don’t have, and also lacked the luxury of time.”
Hunting to keep them fed had taught Feyre that skill set. Hunting, while Nesta had stayed home, safe and warm, and let Feyre venture into that forest alone. Those skills Feyre had honed had allowed her to survive against the High Fae and all their terrors, but … Feyre only had them because of what she’d been forced to do. Because Nesta hadn’t been the one to do it. To step up.
She found Cassian watching carefully. As if he heard those thoughts, felt their weight on her.
“Feyre taught me how to use a bow.” Only a few lessons, and long ago, but Nesta remembered. It was one of the few times she and Feyre had been allies.
“Not an Illyrian bow.” Cassian gestured to a rack of massive bows and quivers beside the mirror. The bows were nearly as tall as a grown woman. “It took me until I was a mature adult to have the strength to even string one of those.”
Nesta crossed her arms, drumming her fingers on her biceps. “So I’m going to spend an hour out here, wiggling my toes?”
Cassian’s grin bloomed again. “Yes.”
At some point, Nesta began sweating. Her feet ached, her legs turned to jelly.
She’d taken off her boots and gone through a few stances with Cassian, focusing on clenching her toes, finding her balance, and generally looking like a fool. At least no one was around to see her standing on one leg while hinging at the hip, the other leg rising behind her. Or using two wooden poles to steady herself while she swung her foot from pole to pole, working her way up each stick. Or doing a basic squat—that it turned out was all wrong, her weight misplaced and back too arched.
All basic, stupid things. And all things she failed utterly at.
Cassian didn’t seem even remotely impressed as she rose from the squat he’d made her hold while supporting a wooden stick above her head. “Stand straight up, head first.”
Nesta obeyed.
“No.” He motioned for her to sink back down. “Head first. Don’t curl your back or lean forward. Shoot straight up.”
“I’m doing that.”
“You’re hunching. Push your feet into the ground. Grip with your toes as you bring your head right— Yes.” She glared as she stood. Cassian just said, “Do another good one, then our hour’s up.”
She did so, panting hard, knees trembling and thighs bleating in burning pain. When she’d finished, she propped herself up with the pole she’d lifted over her head. “That’s it?”
“Unless you want to bargain with me for a second hour.”
“You really want to owe me two favors?”
“If it’ll keep you here to finish the lesson, sure.”
“I’m not sure I can take any more of these stretches.”
“Then we’ll do some breathing work and then a cooldown.”
“What’s a cooldown?”
“More stretching.” He grinned. When she opened her mouth, he explained, “It’s designed to help bring your body back to a normal pace and limit any soreness you’ll have later.”
His tone held no condescension. So she asked, “And what’s breathing work?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.” He put a hand on his stomach, right on those rippling muscles, and took a big, inhaling breath before slowly releasing it. “Your power when you fight comes from many places, but your breathing is one of the big ones.” He nodded toward the stick in her hands. “Thrust it forward like you’re skewering someone with a spear.”
Brows rising, she did so, the motion awkward and inelegant.
He only nodded. “Now do it again, and as you do, inhale.”
She did, the motion markedly weaker.
“And now do it again, but exhale with the thrust.”
It took her a second or two to orient her breathing, but she obeyed, shoving the stick forward as she blew out a breath. Power rippled down her arms, her body.
Nesta blinked at the stick. “I could feel the difference.”
“It’s all linked. Breath and balance and movement. Bulky muscle like this”—he tapped that absurdly contoured stomach of his—“means shit when you don’t know how to utilize it.”