Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2) Carissa Broadbent (best book recommendations txt) 📖

with her toe, pushing it back towards me, then resumed position with two long, gliding steps. “Get up. One more.”

I came back to my feet, ignoring the pain that throbbed behind my eyes. I refused to let my movements betray any hint of it. Certainly not after she just got me to the ground.

Three paces away from her. I took my stance, sweaty palms gripped tight around Il'Sahaj’s hilt.

We both coiled, waiting, watching each other. When Nura and I sparred, we never announced the start of the match. We’d wait, every muscle ready, watch for any twitch of movement.

Fitting. With Nura, one never really knew when the battle began.

Five seconds. Ten. And then—

Nura moved first this time, and I liked it better that way, because it gave me something to respond to. Her rapier came at me from the left and I rolled right, meeting her strike with my own, steel and gold glinting violent pangs beneath the waning sun.

Lunge — and pull back, fast fast fast, before she could answer, before she could adjust—

She lifted her arm. Danced backwards. I snaked out with Il'Sahaj’s blade, caught the edge of her shoulder, opening a trail of crimson over her white jacket.

She winced, but didn’t take her eyes off of me. A little smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

She lunged. I swept to the side, capitalizing on that one off-balance second.

Strike, strike, strike—

Our weapons met where she didn’t expect them too, her rapier so light and flexible that Il'Sahaj nearly barreled right through it. She turned with her body to grab my wrist. But I knew she would — knew she wouldn’t stop.

I went for her other hand. Twisted until I felt it, felt the click of machinery beneath her sleeve.

And shoved her own hand to her throat — so that the blade she’d hidden there was poised against her alabaster skin.

Maybe if I’d looked at her, I might have seen some variation of pride. But instead my eyes couldn’t tear away from the steel against her throat. Behind my skull, Reshaye hissed, a sensation that twisted arousal and hate. It drank up the imagined image of red spilling over her skin.

I froze, distracted, trying to yank Reshaye to the back of my thoughts. But that moment of hesitation was all it took. Nura seized it. Pain shocked up my other wrist as she twisted, then my knees as she kicked my feet out, and then I was on the ground again, my breath coming in gasps.

Nura smirked down at me.

“Good,” she said. “But not good enough.”

“One might argue,” a voice said, from across the arena, “that the match had already been won when there was a blade against your throat, Nura.”

My heart stopped.

I barely noticed when Nura cocked an eyebrow at me and said, “Really? Doesn’t look like it was won to me.”

I scrambled to my feet, spinning around to see Max standing at the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

Max. Max.

I couldn’t move. I wanted to run to him and yank him into an embrace, but all I could do was stare. I didn’t realize until my cheeks started to ache that my face had split into a grin.

He wore a black military jacket that looked a bit worse for wear, the silver accents revealing the stains that the black fabric hid. He’d loosened several buttons so that the double-breasted coat hung down on one side, making him look especially disheveled — not that the mess of his hair and the shadows beneath his eyes didn’t do that already.

“Took you long enough to get back,” Nura said. Twip, as her blade retracted back up her sleeve.

Max shrugged. His eyes didn’t move from mine, a smile twitching at the left side of his mouth.

“Hello, you.”

“Hello, you.” I could barely get the words out, breathless from more than exertion.

Nura rolled her eyes.

Far in the back of my mind, I felt Reshaye stir. I reached into that web, found it where it perched. It was weak, as it so often was, these days — still exhausted from our fight days ago. Carefully, I coaxed it back into the shadows. Draped a blanket of darkness over it, the same way I shielded my thoughts from other Wielders.

I wanted privacy.

I crossed the room to join Max at the door. I slid my hand into his — for a moment, the solidness of his touch overwhelmed me. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. “Let’s go,” I murmured.

“We’re not done,” Nura said.

I didn’t bother looking back. “We are, actually.” Max gave me a little, sidelong smile. I returned it and shrugged.

What would she do? They needed me. And there was nothing that could pull me from this.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Tisaanah

We didn’t even make it to my room. The minute we found ourselves in an empty hallway, we were on each other, my back against the wall, Max’s mouth against mine, kisses desperate and searching. He tasted like soot and smelled like smoke and lilacs, that familiar scent that hit me like the heady seduction of wine.

Oh gods, I missed you, I missed you, I missed you.

My mouth was too busy doing much more important things to form those words, but they pulsed through me with every heartbeat. It was almost embarrassing, to feel so incomplete without another person. I’d spent my whole life learning how to gracefully swallow loss. And yet, these weeks away from him had withered me.

We didn’t stop until we made it to my room, sacrificing seconds for a kiss here, a touch there. When we finally found ourselves at my door, I shoved the key into the lock and threw it open, the two of us staggering inside in an ungraceful tangle of limbs. The door closed. It was silent, save for the wonderful sound of us — beautiful, ragged cadence of Max’s demanding breaths, the rustle of our fingers pulling at clothing, the slide of flesh against flesh.

“I missed you,” I choked out,