I looked up at him through wet lashes and whispered, “Assyria.”

“Assyria,” he repeated, and the way my name rolled off his tongue sent goosebumps skittering across my skin. I hoped he couldn’t see my body’s response in the dim light. “Well, Assyria, let’s get you clothed and back to a male before anyone else comes looking and decides not to be as kind as I am.”

“Thank you,” I choked out, wrapping my arms around myself this time, as if I could protect myself against the possibility that Izgath could be lying.

In a move that should not have been as alluring as it was, Izgath yanked his tunic over his head and handed it to me. “Wear this until we return to your bag.”

It was drier than I expected it to be as I pulled it overhead, with only a line around the waist damp from our encounter in the river. Izgath’s eyes flashed with something that looked a lot like desire when the hem settled over my mid-thigh. My nipples poked through the thin fabric, but I was warmer than I had been lying on the ground.

“Let’s go,” he commanded, sweeping his hand out to indicate I should walk ahead of him. I couldn’t blame him. I did try to run mere minutes before. So I strolled forward, conscious of the way the fabric brushed against my body with every step and of the heat that traced my backside as if he could still see the curves that hid underneath. I swayed my hips more than necessary as I approached part of the riverbank that I thought might allow for a quick jump across to my previous spot. When I bent forward to pull the reeds apart, a choked sound escaped Izgath.

A part of me that I never knew existed preened under his attention, and as I was already feeling reckless, I made sure to slide his tunic from my body with the slowness of a stretching cat and toss it with a glance over my shoulder.

“What are you–” he started, but then I slipped back into the water, wading across and brushing the dirt from my body at the same time. A splash sounded behind me a moment later, Izgath joining me in crossing.

Dripping, I pushed through the tall greenery on the opposite bank and found my drying clothes and bag right where I had left them. The fires burned brighter in the distance now that the sun had all but disappeared from the sky. Izgath’s form was nothing more than a break in the shadows when he emerged.

The way his abs dipped into his pants still caught my eye.

The way his eyes roamed over my naked body did not go unnoticed either.

Whether it was his Incubus magic, the lack of female companionship, or that Izgath was truly attracted to me, I stupidly welcomed it.

I’d never been with anyone besides Vagach, and the thought of sharing my body with another both excited and terrified me. Priestess Anara had warned us many times about Incubi, but I was becoming a new, different person, and the Weaver had put me on this path for a reason. Perhaps Izgath was part of that.

“We should get going,” Izgath said, his voice strained and hoarse. He tore his gaze to my face, and then his brows dipped. “You have burgundy eyes.”

I quirked a brow. “Too distracted by the rest of me?”

A slow grin spread across his lips. “You have very nice features, Assyria. Including your eyes.”

Water dripped from the tips of my hair and landed on my lower back as I stepped forward. “Are you going to tell anyone about these nice features?” I offered him my most saccharine smile.

“I told you already I wouldn’t,” he swore.

Closing the remaining distance between us, I flattened my hand on his bare chest. Heat bloomed where our skin touched. “Good.” I gave him a light shove and spun on my heel. In three strides I was pulling on the only clean and dry clothes I had left in my bag. Without turning around, I pulled on the smoky strands of my magic and became Vagach again, though this time, my hair was shorter and the stubble I’d tried to mix into my appearance that morning was gone.

“Ready?” I asked, voice deeper once again. Fates, how much I missed the sound of my own voice. Soon, I’d be able to slip away and wouldn’t have to pretend to be my abusive dead husband anymore.

But would that even be possible now that Izgath knew the truth?

“I’ll follow you,” Izgath replied, smoothing a hand over his hair.

I slipped on my boots and scooped up my drying clothing. Then, without another word, I made my way back to the camp, Izgath walking in silence alongside me. I trusted what he said about not revealing my identity, but my breath remained lodged in my chest until I’d dumped my belongings into my tent and grabbed a plate of roasted meat and boiled potatoes for dinner. Izgath disappeared into his tent, only a dozen or so paces from mine, as soon as we returned. Satisfied that he would not reemerge, I ate alone, shoveling as much food into me as I could before retiring for the night.

As I drifted off to a fitful sleep, my mind tumbled over all the ways Izgath’s knowledge could affect my future, and what the Fates truly had in store for me.

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12

The following day, our exercise routine morphed into something more. Instead of the usual endless push ups and running, we also had to learn to strike each other. While the previous day Dromak and Uzadaan had shown the basic fighting maneuvers to the group, I had not received the instruction. I was no stranger to a punch being thrown in my direction; the act of doing it, however, was foreign. The other Vezető had taken it upon themselves to teach me away from the rest of the group, much like they had when we first began the exercise regimen.

“Turn your hip over when you throw,” Izgath instructed again. He demonstrated the right handed punch with an exaggerated twist of his hip and foot, then returned into his resting position. I mimicked him, or so I thought. He shook his head and stepped closer, resting his hands on either side of my hips.

“You’re still throwing from your shoulder. Throw from your hip,” he said. “Raise your arm straight out in front of you and I’ll show you.”

I did as instructed, and then he swiftly twisted my hips, throwing my fist forward and nearly into Uzadaan’s face. The ruby-eyed male’s lip twitched up at the corner.

“Do you feel the difference?” Izgath asked, stepping back.

“I think so,” I said. “Let me try on my own.”

Izgath stood diagonal to us, assessing me in a different way than normal. Inhaling, I raised my fists to either side of my face, just below eye level, shoulders hunching up. On my exhale, I threw my right hand forward, ball of foot digging into the earth as I twisted it and my hip. Uzadaan’s head slipped ever so slightly to the side, and my punch brushed the tip of his ear before I retracted it and settled into my stance.

“That was it,” he commented with a grin.

“But I didn’t even hit you,” I replied, dropping my hands.

He stepped out of reach, lips stretching over his sharpened teeth. “And you never will.”

Dromak approached, rotating out with Uzadaan. The two of them, along with Jaku, were coaching the other recruits through a series of slow, controlled strike patterns, ensuring that all were using the proper form and no one was hitting too hard. As Jaku had said, injuries would slow us down, and getting the technique right first was more important than throwing swiftly or with enough power to maim an opponent.

Hence why Izgath and the others had taken such an interest in how I was throwing these punches. If only I were in my body, this would all be so much easier. The additional height, reach, and weight threw me off enough already, though I’d become more accustomed to it after nearly three straight weeks of wearing it.

Dromak stepped in front of me, sporting his usual crooked grin. “Alright, hit me, Vagach. Show me what you’ve got. Let’s see if your haircut helps you move better.”