SAVE POINT 62

Loading A Fight That's Not A Fight...100%

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Rosabella

It feels like 20 minutes that Sparo's been staring at the weapons wall of the gym, trying to decide which to use for our duel. He's already threatened to use the wood handle with the chain and steel spike ball twice...and the num-chuks. To which I told him Mr. Miyagi better hurry up and choose a reasonable choice or I'd select another, second weapon. His chocolate-colored fist finally closes over the hilt of a gold-and-jewel-encrusted, broad sword. He pulls it reverently from the hooks. "Excalibur it is," he decides solemnly, "Not exactly a machine gun or missile launcher but—" he shrugs.

"Has anyone told you you're way too much Blade—" I joke.

"Maybe you're just not enough Blade," he counters, throwing me that typical smug smile that makes me want to laugh and blush at the same time.

And I have to pull my eyes away from his bare chest where they want to roam. Over the curving, flexing muscles of his biceps as he tests the weight of the sword in his grasp. And, suddenly, I need my eyes to be anywhere else. To stop this fluttering attraction in my heart—that giant magnet that keeps pulling us together and making me warm. I lock my gaze on the ornate handle of the saber I've chosen, turning it over in my hand and watching as the blade vibrates from the movement.

And, for whatever reason, I abruptly want to be flirtatious. I'm not sure if it's just that it's probably 3am, now, and I've lost my ability to combat urges I've been pushing down for ages or if it's because I feel fun and free—there in my pajama pants and the tight tank top that barely covers my middle. I want the man's eyes on me.

I want to feel like me in this place that feels so...un-me. So rigid. So formal.

And, so, I reach up and let my hair out of the constrained knot on the top of my skull. And it's like finally letting go of that one, last thing keeping me tied up and away. I shake my locks loose, down my back, immediately breathing the sigh of relief I've needed.

And I shake my arms out too, loving the tingle of thrill that washes down the curve of my body as I feel Sparo's eyes trace down mine while I turn, readying my attack.

"How much fighting skill can you possibly have as a dragon?" I kid, my voice as flippant as I want and far too flippant at the same time. Am I making the right choice being so outward about all this? But I suddenly don't care. So what if he knows! So what if I have a little fun?

"I can best you," he growls, grinning and moving towards me with the intensity of a panther. "Though," he cocks his head, seeming to add an afterthought, "admittedly, dragons don't need clunky weapons like this. We have fire, claws, teeth." He flashes a wicked smile at me.

"Which means," I titter confidently, "you have very little skill with a blade, and we're well-matched—"

"Don't underestimate me, small one."

And the man steps forward—the heat from his chest nearly pulsing on the skin of my arms he's so close.

And his eyes hold something different.

A threat?

A longing?

It makes something sizzle within me.

His fingers reach out, but I'm faster. I dance out of reach, raising my saber, ready, across my body as he lifts his, too, the blade glinting in the harsh incandescent lights overhead while he grins wolfishly at me—

"Wait," I tell him.

And he does as I kick my feet free of my slippers.

And it's just the feeling of my bare feet on the spongy, gym mat floor. And the smell of sweat. And the man's intense eyes narrowed at me. And our two blades thrashing in the air, knowing they'll meet in just a minute.

Clash together.

And never be the same again.

Sparo strikes first. I dodge, twirling out of the way, my loose hair fanning out around me. I haven't had much one-on-one sword practice except for during Dormouse's side mission, but I know my strengths: avoid, duck, cover, get out of the way—

I dance out of reach, feeling adrenaline surge through me, swirling like caffeine through my veins, making me delightedly jittery.

"You're gonna have to spar at some point," Sparo calls, attempting another lunge and missing, "you can't fight it forever—"

"Try me," I tease, jumping to the side again, as his blade just narrowly misses my shoulder.

This is like a ballet—a beautiful movement to movement where my hands and my feet step as one. Turn as one. And joy fills me with each step—

A freedom.

A breathless, easy freedom that I've searched for all my life and just found.

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Here.

Now.

...With Sparo.

My bare feet patter over the gym mats. My breath catches in my throat as I avoid another strike.

"Hey! I hate losing! Fight!" Sparo complains, swinging sloppily now, hacking at the air between us with his enormous King Arthur sword.

And I see an opening.

I skitter forward and jab my saber.

And Sparo tries to dodge, but he's way too open—

His sword drops, bouncing off the padded mat below as he clutches for the tender skin under his armpit...which, now, holds a red gash.

"Damn, girl!" He exclaims, "Take it easy on a dragon, will you?"

And I'm grinning—I can't hide it. The smile splits through my face, through everything I've been dealing with—

"You're just jelly I won a bazillion cheesy fries just now," I jest, striding towards him, my bare feet sticking to the mat with each, suction-cup step, "You wish you won."

"I do."

His face is closer than I'd expected. His breath is hot on my cheek.

I go to step back—to recoil from this situation and what could happen next—but, to my surprise, the man steps closer.

So I can see the sweat shining on his brow, near his hairline and on his upper lip. So I can see that that longing has returned to his eyes—yes, definitely longing. Yearning.

And it makes something in the base of my stomach turn over.

Lurch.

This was a bad idea—

My heart shivers with anticipation.

This whole fight and flirting thing was a bad call—

"I really only want to win one thing, Rosabella," he says.

And his voice is as deep and gravelly as his eyes.

And I can't move.

I can't breathe.

Not anymore.

I can only stare. Into the man's eyes, acknowledging that, if I dive into them or if I fall...even if he pushes me... I may never make it out again. And I wonder why I'm warm.

And breathless.

Probably flushed.

And why, maybe, I'm suddenly okay with all of that.

"What do you want to win?" I whisper. Just barely. I barely whisper it. My throat is too dry, and the question feels like an excuse.

A delay.

So I can figure out what the heck I'm doing or want to do in this space.

Sparo leans closer. "Your heart. I want to win your heart."

And his huge hands suddenly bookend my waist, pressing in gently on both sides. And his eyes are deeper than a coal mine and even more dangerous and, yet, safe. Somehow, safe. As he leans—

Electricity.

Sparking.

As our lips meet.

Wet.

Warm.

Shit.

I melt.

Liquid.

Not solid.

Into him. Into his chest.

Like we were never meant to be separate. Like we were always one.

And his hands climb to my hair, running through it with a gentleness I'd never have expected from the man and...

And, if I stop kissing him, will I be able to breathe?

Function?

How did this happen? How has this not happened till right now?

His lips tickle as he pulls back gently from me. As our foreheads meet, resting on each other. Like we're finally holding each other up—like two pillars, leaning into the strength of each other.

"Mimi said you were upset. You're upset?" I feel his brow crease against mine. His tone is soft and prodding, genuinely concerned.

And I sigh.

Because the heaviness is back.

On my chest.

On my heart.

The fight and the kiss had lifted it for a minute, but it comes flooding back: This place. The people. My title. My responsibilities...

"They expect so much of me here, Sparo," I admit quietly, the words tumbling out.

He looks at me. Truly looks up, his brown eyes intense. "Who says you have to give them it—give them you?" He questions. "You're a gift. You're a special person; your time and energy is a gift. You're the Game Maker. Make the game you want—"

Why does this sound familiar? From the dream-like vision I'd had with the creator magic???

I shake my head, pushing away from the man a little—not because I disagree with him but because I don't think he entirely understands. I start to pace, running a frazzled hand through my hair.

"I—I get what you're saying but it's—different. These people—there's pressure here to follow in my parents' footprints, and I don't even want to be a ruler. I was just trying to save The Game from the darkness..."

Speaking of which, I feel it in the back of my throat now.

The darkness.

And, before I can stop, a cough racks my body, spasms starting from my middle and moving up—

Sparo leaps towards me and I—

I throw up black between us on the gym mat. I feel black blood dribbling down my lip and wipe it away.

"I'm so sorry," I croak.

But his hands are already turning me away from the black. His fingers pry my face up to his searching eyes, "You okay? You're gonna be okay. We'll get you more root powder and some sleep. You need some sleep, Rosabella."

And he's right. I'm supposed to have this thing tomorrow that I can't remember and am not supposed to forget. Too late for that.

"Okay," I whisper.

And I let him lead me down the hall and to my bedroom that I know has cameras in it. And I let him mix me a tonic of root powder and water and kiss me gently on the forehead.

And I wish he could stay with me as I fall asleep.

But I know he can't, so I let him go.

And it looks like he doesn't want to leave either. He fingers the ends of my hair, "Goodnight, beautiful."

And I smile at him, fluttery nerves dancing and prancing in my heart.

But he has it backwards, I think as I drift off to sleep, because it was a 'beautiful, good night'.