“You don’t have to worry anymore,” Myles said with a grin as we all sat around the conference table in the library, getting ready to dive into our books.
I cocked an eyebrow. “And why is that?”
“Carrick has a Light Fae protective Secret-Service-like detail on us,” Rainey answered for her boyfriend.
“He has a what?” I exclaimed, shocked that such a thing even existed, much less that Carrick would be thoughtful enough to implement it.
Not that he’s not thoughtful, but I thought he’d gone above and beyond in helping to protect my friends, short of letting them move into the condo with us, which was still a hard no among everyone except me.
“Yeah,” Myles explained as he leaned back in the leather executive chair. There are eight around the table. “Rainey and I noticed this guy following us one morning, so we just stopped and asked him who he was. He told us he was a Light Fae, and that Carrick had set up a rotating schedule to watch over us when we weren’t aboard the Fantasia.”
“Wow,” I murmured, now exceedingly touched by Carrick’s effort. Because I knew he didn’t do it for Rainey and Myles. He did it for me, knowing how utterly devastated I’d be if something happened to them.
And I’m not even jaded anymore by thinking that my devastation would, in turn, hamper our efforts to thwart the prophecy and prevent him from attaining his Ascension.
No. I’m pretty confident Carrick did it because he cares about me. I’d seen it in the way he protected me from Kymaris, and the care in attending my wounds after, and even the way I find him watching me sometimes.
He cares and, yet, he thinks that’s all he has to give to me. It seems that every day that passes, I’m more convinced our fates are more deeply entwined than just the gods meddling, and I feel like there’s something more to us that he’s not telling me.
I shake myself out of my ruminations about Carrick, which embarrassingly often takes up brain space at odd times.
Pushing up from my rolling chair, I nab my phone and bid Zaid a farewell. “See you at dinner.”
He grunts again, and I head up the spiral staircase.
Over this last week, Carrick has demanded I keep up my training, so every day at three, I head up to the gym for a few hours. On the occasions Carrick is in the condo, he has joined me as Titus said he would to keep my offensive and defensive skills sharp. He mainly acts as an instructor, giving me advice on technique. Sometimes, he will engage in weapons training with me, using a heavy wooden staff to defend himself while I’m allowed to attack with swords, my whip, and a battle-ax.
It surprised me at first, but then made sense, that Carrick is far more advanced as a warrior than Titus. I just assumed because Titus was an annihilator and Carrick is mostly a businessman, that it would be reversed. But when I thought about the fact Carrick was created to fight wars and has lived several thousand years longer than Titus, I realized that, of course, he would be better.
I head into my room to get changed, having moved all my workout gear over to my closet. My clothing has remained standard—leggings, sports bra, tank, and one of the several pairs of expensive athletic shoes Carrick had bought for me. I secure my hair into a long braid and grab the little duffel bag that I keep my wraps and gloves in so I can do bag work, as well as a water bottle.
When I get to the gym, I’m slightly surprised to see Carrick in there. He’d left this morning without a word as to where he’d be going, and Lucien had set up a quiet guard in the living area with a direct line of sight to the elevators should something wicked come through. Carrick hasn’t been all that transparent as to where he’s been going, but I think sometimes it’s work-related as this morning he exited the condo in one of his suits. Other times, he’s casual, and I expect those trips are to reach out to contacts for information.
Right now, though, he cuts an incredibly sexy figure in a pair of workout shorts and a plain gray t-shirt. It’s the first time I’ve actually seen Carrick’s legs and just… damn. They’re golden-colored like the rest of his skin and muscular in a proportioned way to his height and the rest of his muscles. He’s just a physically perfect specimen of a man, but then again… he’s not really a man, is he?
He’s a perfect demi-god.
Carrick turns his head when I walk in, giving me the slightest smile of greeting. “We’re going to work on some hand-to-hand today,” he advises me.
“Cool,” I reply, dropping my duffel down and pulling my wraps and gloves out. We’ve yet to do that, and I love practicing my martial arts skills.
Carrick shakes his head. “You’re not going to need those.”
Frowning, I stuff them back in the bag. “Why not?”
“Because you’re not going to be able to lay a hand on me,” he replies smugly. “I’m simply too fast.”
I tip my head, eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh yeah? I’ll have you know I’ve managed to land many strikes against Titus.”
“Titus can’t touch me either,” Carrick replies smoothly.
I wrinkle my nose as I straighten, not sure if that’s true or not. But I know Carrick is setting me up to defy the expectations he just laid down. He knows I work best when I’m a little mad and riled up.
“You might want the headgear, though,” Carrick taunts. “I’m not going to hold back.”
“I’ll pass.” I give him a saucy smirk before moving to the end of the gym to start my dynamic stretches.
Carrick doesn’t join me, but I’m guessing demi-gods don’t need to stretch. He surfs his cell phone while I take about ten minutes to warm up, and when I’m done, I walk over to the water cooler and fill my bottle up.
“I’m ready,” I say as I twist on the cap and set it on the floor.
Carrick looks up, puts his phone on an incline bench, and moves to the middle of the gym with about a thirty-by-thirty-foot area of free space where we do hand-to-hand and set up my dummies for whip practice. They’re currently all stored along the wall, several with chunks missing from the plastic where I’ve perfected my striking.
I jump nimbly from foot to foot, a tactic Duane always taught me to prevent myself from getting flat-footed, which makes people slow. Carrick merely walks slowly—completely flat-footed but still a million times faster than me—attempting to circle me, but I never give him my back.
I move along the same path, facing him with my arms up, hands fisted loosely, and in the prime spot to protect my face.
On the other hand, Carrick has his arms hanging down at his sides, his face, torso, and gonads completely open to my attack.
So I take it, launching into a jump front kick, and I go for the shot that will take him out. I aim right for his jewels, part of me hating to hurt him in that way, but also falling back on Titus’ training that I should never show an ounce of mercy, and if I have a kill shot or a shot to take someone out of action permanently, I must take it.
I push off hard from the floor with my right foot, left knee rising to give me an extra lift, and when I’m at my apex of flight, I snap out my right leg, aiming the bottom heel of my foot right at his balls.
Carrick doesn’t try to step back or turn his body to evade me. His arm merely flashes so fast I can’t see it, but all I know is he has my ankle in his hand, and he shoves me backward. It’s not hard enough to throw me straight to the ground, but it’s forceful enough that I stumble back several feet before the momentum takes me down to my ass in a humiliating conclusion to that attack.