Free The Sharpest Blade by Sandy Williams Page A

couch in his attempt to get off of Sosch’s tail. The
kimki
squeaks again, then he darts out from underfoot, leaping straight from the floor to my chest.
    “Sosch!” I yell, staggering under the weight of the fifteen-pound furball. “Sosch. Down!”
    He moves to drape himself across my shoulders, his tiny claws pricking my skin.
    “Sosch.” Aren’s mouth splits into a grin as he regains his balance. My balance is still off, though. I steady myself on the edge of my secondhand breakfast table, then bend down to Sosch’s bowl of Goldfish.
    “Here.” I hold one up to his mouth. He devours it and the next two I give him. “Now down. Perch.”
    Sosch jumps off my shoulders, stops at my feet, then raises his front legs off the ground. Balanced on his hind legs, he stretches up just past my knees.
    “Perch?” Aren asks, staring as the
kimki
eats two more crackers.
    I nod. “It’s different from ‘sit.’ I thought about using ‘stand,’ but ‘perch’ is cuter.”
    “Cuter?”
    I frown at Aren, not getting the tone in his voice. He’s not quite annoyed. It’s more like he’s . . . offended?
    “Is something wrong?” I ask.
    “You taught him . . . tricks?”
    “To perch and sit and roll over, yeah.”
    He shakes his head. “You can’t teach a
kimki
tricks.”
    “Obviously, you can.”
    “No, you . . . you just don’t. They’re
kimkis
, McKenzie. They’re not”—he waves his hand as he searches for the right word—“pets.” He almost chokes on that last word.
    “It’s not a big deal, and you do it all the time when you tell him to jump on your shoulders.” I grab another Goldfish, then order, “Up.”
    Sosch leaps to my outstretched arm, then back to my shoulders.
    “That’s different. I wanted him to come with me, not to perform. This is . . . It’s . . . It’s . . .”
    I’ve never seen Aren like this, so flabbergasted. It’s funny, and I’m tempted to see if Sosch will start swinging his head back and forth when I say “dance,” but he’s still working on that trick, and so far, he’s only done it when I play Matchbox Twenty.
    But I
don’t
tell Sosch to dance. Instead, I help Aren out. “It’s sacrilege?”
    “Yes!” Aren says, grabbing onto the word. “Sacrilege.
Kimkis
are endangered and wild. They do what they want, and sometimes their desires line up with yours, but . . .”
    He fades off when Sosch nuzzles his furry head under my chin. Aren’s eyes are still wide, still astounded, and I think maybe even a little . . .
    I grin. “You’re jealous.”
    Aren’s gaze locks on my mouth. He’s confessed to loving my smiles. He’s told me he thinks they’re rare, like a magic that went extinct during the
Duin Bregga
, but they were only scarce because we were enemies, and we were fighting a war.
    “Jealous of a
kimki
?” The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Never.”
    “Of me,” I say, stepping toward him. “I’ve stolen your pet.”
    “I told you”—he reaches up and glides his hand down Sosch’s long back—“they’re not pets,
nalkin-shom
.”
    Nalkin-shom.
Shadow-witch. The title should infuriate me, but it doesn’t, not when it comes from his lips, and especially not when his voice is deep and gently teasing.
    “If I knew all it would take to get you here was Sosch,” I say, “I would have sent a ransom note weeks ago.”
    His smile makes chaos lusters ricochet through my stomach. He’s standing close, so he can pet Sosch, and his cedar-and-cinnamon scent makes warmth flood through me.
    “I’ve missed you,” I say.
    His silver eyes meet mine. “You make me lose my focus.”
    “Good.” I smile.
    His head lowers toward mine, and his
jaedric
cuirass moves as his chest rises and falls beneath it.
    My skin tingles. I tilt my head slightly as I lean toward Aren, not figuring out that the sensation is a warning until after a fissure cuts through the room. Kyol steps out of the slash of light with Naito, and the warmth that